One of the premier forms of entertainment when I was growing up was the dine-n-dash. The dine-n-dash combined the finesse of a track relay race and the stealth of a CIA spy. A gaggle of us would go into a greasy spoon, say your average Waffle House, order plates of food and slip out before the check hit the table. This was how we spent our time while the Beta vs. VHS debate raged.
Was it mean? Yes. Am I proud of this? Of course not. But like George Bush and mullet hair-dos we cannot deny our bad choices.
Now, the subway version of the dine-n-dash:
A burly guy eating chicken wings covered with enough en fuego sauce to singe my nose hair decides to exit the F train at the York Street stop. (Why does this stop exist?) He wipes his greasy hands on a napkin, then deposits napkin and gnawed chicken bones into a Styrofoam box. He discreetly slides the open box under the seat with the toe of his work boot, careful not to get any sauce on it, and darts between the closing doors onto the platform, leaving the rest of us suckers with the reeking bill.