Save a Horse, Kill a Cowboy

Today is a great day. Not only do I NOT have to drive 40 minutes out to Reedley College, and NOT circle the campus to try to find a place to parallel park because I'm too cheap to buy a parking pass and NOT walk another 10 minutes once on campus to my class---but for the first time in a long time, I DON'T have to sit behind Stinky, Creepy, Cowboy guy.
Being from a place like Clovis, you run into a lot of cowboys. And when I say cowboys I mean boys who wear really tight jeans and cowboy hats and hang out of ridiculously huge, fossil fuel guzzling trucks whistiling at girls or yelling obscenities. They're a dime a dozen around here, so you kinda get used to it. But this cowboy I had to sit behind every freaking day for 8 freaking weeks was a doozey.
Everyday he would plop down in his seat right in front of mine and instantly my brooding began. My day always seemed to start with me trying not to look at whatever lewd t-shirt he had selected for that day. Was it the "Cowboys Love their Bad Ass Toys" shirt with the naked girl and the muddy truck? Or was it the"No, I didn't ask you to Dance, I said you look fat in those pants" shirt? (no joke, these were his two favorites).
Even though I am now free of the visual assault I endured for the past few weeks I can't seem to let it go. What is it with men and behavior such as this? Why does society deem it acceptable? Freedom of speech and expression, yadda yadda great. Okay, fine. But there should be some give and take here. Let's say some idiot gets to buy his degrading t-shirt, but that means that every woman he encounters who takes offense gets to spit in his face. There. Even Steven. It's only fair.