They call him the shrew, arms in short, in with the claws. He's little Johnny Frostbite, he's the Hitcher. Call him Old Gregg, Neville Bamshoot, or Obsidian Blackbird McNight. He's all of them and none of them, and he neither licks balls for money nor runs from student loans. Master of the Zoo-niverse, seducer of pandas, he's the Juicy Dangler, the Fizzler, and he's galloping towards you on his drainpipe legs like a funky, see-through horse filled with Sprite. The only thing he needs is a story about a pencil case...
Did you know I once punched a man so hard, his legs turned into trombones?
The Boosh is loose, people, and it's coming at you like a shark with knees.
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