"So, would you like the extended warranty on this television?"
"Why? Is it going to break?"
"Oh, probably not. But this will cover you if it does."
"Do they break a lot?"
"I saw one come in the other day that exploded this dude's whole family."
"Now I kind of don't want to buy this television."
(thinking) "My family hates getting exploded."
So why the hell at this, the most critical, money-exchangingest point in this whole process, would a retailer start talking up all the chances their product could break?
Because for the business selling them, extended warranties are surefire, risk-free investments, a crop of free money just waiting to be harvested off of people who don't understand math. Extended warranties are a form of insurance, and thanks to the power of nerds with spreadsheets, every piece of insurance is designed to, on average, cost the insured more money than they'll get in return.
(thinking) "My family hates nerds."
The only reason you should ever buy insurance is to insure against a disaster that you couldn't possibly recover from on your own savings. House insurance or car insurance or health insurance, that kind of thing. Television insurance, when you call it "television insurance," sounds like exactly as dumb an idea as it is.
Once or twice a year, a supermarket will close its doors for the night, whereupon an army of people I can't not imagine as elves appear from the shadows and move every single product around to different shelves. The next day, regular customers are left baffled and lost, straggling through the aisles searching for their wandering groceries. For able-bodied customers, this is a serious annoyance; for the elderly, it seems almost cruel, extending their shopping trips to lengths of up to seven hours.
An almost 50 percent increase.