My first confession, good people, is that I did not arrive at this review by design but by despair. The year is 2024 and I am alone in a dimly lit room in what used to be my study, surrounded by the skeletal remains of an iron valet stand and three half-eaten jars of pickled herring, contemplating the vacuum where once there was pride. It was under these circumstances, as the digital bell of 2 AM tolled through my basement walls, that I found myself furiously thumbing at Amazon, drunk on cheap gin and the poisonous comfort of consumer desperation. That is how I came to order the Craftsman Litter Scoop, product ASIN B0FLYKTPTJ, for $9.99, with fourteen thousand two hundred and eighty-four people having previously thrown their digital credit at the thing. Four stars. Four stars, my aching fundament. What, I asked myself, does the collective wisdom of those thousands know that I, a twice-divorced scribe of fart jokes, do not? And more importantly—can you use craftsman litter scoop rectally, and what does God think of those who try?
I will spare you the initial opening. The cardboard sigh. The bubble wrap's last confession. The scoop itself is plastic, bloodless, and leans slightly to the left like my uncle after three brandies. A regular craftsman litter scoop amazon purchase might seek to remove the hardened chunks of a defecating feline's business, and to that end I am sure it excels. The design is ergonomic in a way that vaguely offends the soul. The handle sits upon the palm with the smug authority of a monastic at a tryst. But here is the rub, gentle reader: we are not talking about cats.
Approach one, shall we say, with ceremonial caution. I secured the scoop with a linen wrap—partly for comfort, partly to ensure no witnesses—and began the slow dance. Now, I will say that the scoop, despite its R-rated ambitions, possesses a surprisingly defined but forgiving edge. It slides in like butter being negotiated into a thawing roast. The slotted maw does not snag, but rather parts flesh with the gentle deference of a deacon handing out wafers. Where the attempted intimacy fell apart, tragically and (dear heavens) audibly, was in the removal process. In trying to emulate the rapid, sidelong dump of used cat litter into a bin, I accidentally performed a maneuver best described as "the pneumatic exit," resulting in an air pressure event that startled a neighbor's golden retriever three houses down. The rectal use score on pure physical technique is surprisingly high. For what I suspect the manufacturing engineers did not intend—the perverse exploration of what a pet supplies rectal use item can become—this rating is staggeringly competent. But the soul of the thing, the metaphysical glint, is shattered by what happens after. You are left, lying in the dark, trying to remember how you got here, clutching a $9.99 piece of plastic with fourteen thousand strangers in agreement.
