I shit you not, it is the most cherished piece of hardware that I own. I bought it fours years ago at an army surplus store in Kitchener for three lousy bucks.
Like the antenna on that shitty boom box in your parent’s garage that you used to think was so cool, it expands. I can scratch any part of my back with it.
Its foam handle gets shit done without pretension—It’s grippy, but not overly so. And its head: what’s not to love? rigid and capable of carving a wide swatch across my man-hide in a single pass, it is a piece of function-focused industrial art. Also, I’m certain, although I have no first-hand confirmation on the matter, that it’d work just as well on lady-leather as it does on man-hide.
My only complaint about this thing has nothing to do with the hardware, but rather, my lack of forethought. I should have bought six of these damned things while I had the chance. Doing so would have ensured that, for the rest of my life, I would never need to rely on another human being, tree or carpet to scratch the unreachable expanse of the backside of my body.
Instead, I live in fear that my back scratcher might one day be lost or broken. It’s a thing to lose sleep over.