Taking Shit

Life is all about taking shit.  Now that I'm employed again, this is clearer than ever.  I've had to take shit from coworkers: but mostly from customers.  My coworkers have also had to take massive amounts of shit from customers.  Perhaps society is breaking down.  Some think that America is headed for a major fall.  Perhaps this is part of it.
I'll give you an example.  I was working, as a cashier, in the outside lawn and garden area of the store where I work.  A man was there with his woman.  I rang up the purchases, and he paid for them with his credit card.  When one uses a credit or debit card to pay, one approves the purchase amount first, so that's what he did.  After he did that and paid for the merchandise, he had a problem with the price of one of the items.  According to him, it had been put in the wrong place or the price was wrong.  According to him, it should have cost a lot less than it did.  But here's the problem; he approved the total purchase amount!  And now that it's gone through, there's nothing I can do to right this supposed wrong for him.  Returns must be done at customer service.  I told him that, and it made him very angry.
"You mean I have to go all the way over there?" he asked.  He said it like it was a mile or so away.  It wasn't.  It was much less than that: just a little bit of a stroll, which, considering his fat-ass physique, he wasn't very used to navigating.  Then he said, "Fuck it.  I'm not going there.  I'll hold up the line too.  I don't care."
I knew what to say to that, but I didn't say it, because it could have gotten me fired.  I would have said, 'Why did you approve the purchase amount if you had a problem with it?"
Here's another example.  A woman, with an English accent, approached me while I was manning a cash register.  She was a little bitchy, which turned out to be foreshadowing.  The store I work at has it's own credit cards.  We allow our customers to use them even if they failed to bring them to the store for their purchases.  We can look them up on the computerized registers.  That's what the bitch wanted to do; she wanted to use the credit card she failed to bring to the store.  So I looked it up, and the computer said, "no account found."  I told her that, and she got very bitchy
"I have an account here!" she yelled.  I double-checked all the info she had given me: no dice.  My memory is a little fuzzy, cause I've been drinking, but I think she requested the assistance of a manager.  She arrived and assisted. 
The manager, Trixie, asked "Could it be under your husband's name (which I had asked)?"
"No!" was the response,  "It's under both our names.  I think he (me) typed it in wrong."
It turned out that it was under her husband's name.  She had been a bitch for no good reason and fucked with two people who couldn't retaliate unless they were OK with losing their jobs.