Our house, in the middle of the street

Trying to decide what is currently the most annoying commercial on television is sort of like trying to choose which defendant in the Nuremberg Trials was the most villainous. The difficulty of such a task is surpassed only by trying to find a commercial that isn't annoying in some way, whether due to repeated airings, hammy actors1, overly loud volume, bad covers of old pop songs, or some combination of all. Slate, however, nominates a strong contender for the advert most likely to have you lunging for your remote control at top speed, sponsored by real estate mainstay Century 21.

Rapidly losing business due to prospective home buyers fending for themselves on the internet, Century 21 recently began a new campaign that promotes the personalized service you can only receive from one of their agents. They don't just have a stake in the hefty commission they'll make from the sale, but in your family's happiness as well, and they will happily see you through the entire buying process, from mortgage approval up to when the final Hummel figurine is placed on the mantle that was passed down to you from your great-grandmother. It's not about the money, it's about the warmth and bonding. It almost doesn't feel right to take a large sum of cash for such a thing, and yet, it's their lot in life.

Let me say in advance that I have no personal experience with a real estate agent. I've lived in apartments or condominiums my entire life, and the fact that I live in New York and make only a modest sum of money per year all but ensures that I won't be going on any home-buying expeditions in the country anytime soon. I suppose it's fortunate that I'm not the type of person who would consider myself a failure if I don't own my own home by age thirty, because the date on that particular container of cottage cheese expired a few years ago. My impression of real estate agents is that they're like car salesman: friendly but mostly phony individuals who will try to talk you into buying something that is out of your original price range. According to Century 21, however, their agents will meet prospective buyers at the airport, play with your children while you're busy unpacking, and act as the middle man when you and your spouse can't agree on a purchase, as in the ad mentioned by Slate. In the commercial, known as "the Debate," a couple stands in their darkened kitchen discussing whether or not they should buy a home. The portly husband, who vaguely resembles Mark Addy of the not particularly notable CBS sitcom Still Standing, looks apprehensive about making such a huge commitment. The wife, who vaguely resembles Mel Harris of the not particularly memorable ABC drama thirtysomething, looks harried and perturbed about his apprehension.

"Suzanne researched this," she says, and before we get a chance to wonder who Suzanne is and why the husband should take whatever it was she researched into consideration, a voice pipes up from a nearby telephone. Suzanne is their real estate agent, and she is listening in on what is proving to be a rather testy exchange between the couple. "You guys can do this," she says, in the gentle but persuasive tone of a close friend who is trying to steer you towards rehab.

Even after hearing about the good price of the house and the fine schools in the neighborhood, the husband still appears reluctant, and at this point the wife's body language becomes combative as she furrows her brow and cocks her head angrily to one side. "What?" she snaps, a perfect tone of "I can't believe what an asshole you're being about this" incredulousness in her voice. Finally, after a long, painful moment, he sighs with resignation and agrees to purchase the house. The wife's body language than switches abruptly to joyous disbelief. "Are you kidding?" she asks as they embrace. "This is awesome!" Fade out.

The consumer is apparently supposed to be happy for the couple's purchase, despite the fact that the husband had to be badgered, brow-beaten, and guilt-tripped into going through with it. Perhaps I'm cynical (actually, there's really no "perhaps" about it), but this does not seem to be the most promising beginning to a thirty year financial commitment. Much like a shotgun wedding, some hapless shlub has been ganged up on and forced to agree to something he clearly doesn't want to do. This can't possibly be the image Century 21 wanted to project, that their agents will interfere with deeply personal discussions between couples in order to make a sale, best interests of the buyer at heart or not. I also can't imagine that they intended for the wife to come off as a "bully" and a "nagging harpy," but, given the comments on discussion boards at Slate and FARK that's just the message that viewers are getting. She even uses that same manipulative method women have used to win arguments since time immemorial, immediately turning off the anger when they are victorious. This is the tactic known as the "I'm sorry I was such a bitch" move, using whatever low-blow tactics it takes to get want you want, and then apologizing for it later, when really all you're sorry about is that you didn't get your way sooner. I'm a woman myself, and I wanted to never stop punching her.

That the commercial seems to be irritating to so many suggests that the creators used a very selective test audience, specifically people who still believe that women are able to make large purchases with little reservation, or that men are cheap and have to be coerced into doing what's best for their families. To someone who thinks in such a manner, the commercial has a happy ending: the wife, who clearly knows best, is triumphant, and the husband has been shamed into putting money worries before his family. To everyone else who knows that it's not entirely irrational to worry about money in this current shaky economic climate, it's annoying, perhaps even offensive, and it makes you think that finding a house through Craigslist isn't such a bad idea, even if you have to send n00dz before getting a chance to look at it.

1. I am particularly disturbed by one of the actresses in a commercial for Ovaltine, who asks her children "Who wants Ovaltine hot?" with the glassy-eyed, manic grin of a crystal meth addict, suggesting that she is about to embark upon her own personal reenactment of the Jonestown Massacre.