Last year I got a job at a store that sells video games, which I absolutely love. Important note, I'm a twenty year old girl and my manager is an older woman, but the other six people who work at the store are men.
An older woman, in her late 40s or maybe early 50s, walked in one day and I greeted her automatically, being as cheerful and polite as I can be. She glared at me as though I insulted her by opening my mouth, then stomped up to the counter and slammed a certain M-rated game that involves the theft of cars. I blinked at her and waited patiently, knowing that if I said anything she'd find a way to snap at me about something. The woman, who I'll call PM for Protective Mother, slammed the game onto the counter again and gave me another dirty look, which I replied to with a bright smile. (Kindness pisses crazy people off more, I've learned.)
PM: Did you sell this fucking game to my son?
Me: I'm not sure. Do you have a receipt?
(Our receipts say which associate sold the items.)
PM: No, I don't have a fucking receipt. Did you sell the fucking game to him or not?
Me: What does your son look like? Maybe I'll remember him.
Me: Yes, ma'am, I'm aware. I believe it's M-rated for violence, drug use, sexual themes, that sort of thing. Is something wrong?
PM: You should this fucking game to my fucking son! You can't do that!
Me: I'm sorry to hear that, is he grounded or something?
At this point, I'm eyeing the backroom and trying to decide whether she'd attack me if I fled. I'm used to crazy people and fairly decent at holding my ground, but she had the crazy eyes that usually led to throwing things.
PM: No, he's not fucking grounded, he's too old for that!
Me: ....Ma'am, how old is your son?
PM: He's twenty-one.
In case you've never gone to an R-rated movie or bought an M-rated game, the legal age to buy them is 17 or 18, depending on where you live.
Me: I'm sorry, but he's old enough to buy an M-rated game, so I didn't see a problem.
PM: Are you fucking insane? You need Jesus, you crazy bitch. This is the work of the devil!
Me: What can I say, the devil makes good games.
At that, I promptly turned away and went back to my job, leaving her to glare at my back and huff angrily.
Me: I'm sorry, but I can't actually help you. If you want to do a return, I need your receipt.
PM: This is why women shouldn't work, they're fucking useless.
Me: You do realize you're a woman, don't you?
This pissed her off and finally made her leave, hollering about Jesus and women workers. At this point, of course, my manager walks out from the back room where she was doing paperwork and gives me a funny look. I just shrugged and went back to what I was doing, because I honestly didn't get paid enough to give a damn that she was a crazy woman who thought I was Satan's bride.