The first couple of times I saw this commercial, I was watching out of the corner of my eye and assumed I’d misunderstood. You must have missed something, I’d tell myself, getting up from Hulu to replenish my snack tray; a national big-box store with the money to pay for a decent ad agency COULDN’T have made a commercial where some dumbass kid can’t figure out her volcano for science fair and her dad, instead of teaching her how to follow basic instructions, goes out and buys a $2000 TV.

Sadly for me, for you, and for America, that is the alpha and omega of what this commercial is about. Because sometimes, you just want to turn this:

Into this:

Dad looks at Mom: “God, it’s nice to have money coming out of our buttholes.”

You will notice, my fellow HUMBLE PEOPLE IN SEARCH OF TRUTH IN ADVERTISING, that the TV—with some off-the-cuff dinosaur figurines hanging out in front of it—doesn’t even show the girl’s damn homemade experiment, not without some serious doctoring by way of lighting tricks and CGI. “Hey, that’s science!” the girl might say to the teacher, who is smiling inexplicably. That’s right, little baby: it’s the science of lies.

Here is the narration of the commercial:

“Sometimes, a special creation can seem ordinary. At Best Buy, our blue shirts know that things can be extraordinary with the right tech. Like the revolutionary OLED TVs from LG, featuring perfect blacks and intense colors that bring images to life. So even small successes can look like big triumphs. Come in and let us show you the difference.”

“Small successes” can look like “big triumphs”? PERFECT BLACKS? How deep does this shit go? I’m really not trying to be alarmist, but beyond encouraging people to buy their way out of extremely basic tasks and also suggesting that the world will meet this tactic with sincere adulation, Best Buy is basically encouraging ontological psychopathy. “Oh hey, where’s your dog?” you imagine asking, when you enter the home of this family. Mom rolls out a $2000 flatscreen playing a video loop of a golden retriever. “He’s here,” she says, smiling blankly. “We’re all always here.”


Contact the author at jia@jezebel.com.