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      Like his father before him, Leslie Drake was a small potato rancher living in the heart of oil country and struggling to scratch out a living from an unforgiving land. One year, times got tough, as they often do in tales of this nature, and his family was forced to eat the potato, so Leslie took off his boots and left home, slogging north in search of a new route to Idaho. He had nothing but a garden rake and an old guitar, which he would use to beat off the choking dust storms that plagued him every nautical mile of his journey. Due to boredom, Leslie gradually learned to pluck the tines of the garden rake and discovered that he was sometimes able to earn a few potato chips here and there from disbelieving gawkers as he traveled ever northward in search of the promised land. Having nearly hit the hitch-hiking spud-man several times in our travels up and down this great country, we finally picked him up just for a laugh. Leslie has since ridden the coattail of the mighty Mojo machine despite our best efforts to pry his fingers from the bumper. Today, he has switched to plucking the guitar and beating off the dust storms with the rake, but otherwise his sound remains largely unchanged and he is the same simple soul that we first came to love and then gradually to fear. Now days, he gets all the potatos he can hold in two hands after each performance.

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      Cindy Hayden first surfaced in the late 30ís, and then again two weeks later, when an unsuspecting fisherman pulled her up into his ship. She immediately broke into a song and being unable to push her back into the sea, the bemused sea man grudgingly fed her and offered her berth to the continent in exchange for her silence. The poor fisherman was never heard from again. In practically no time at all she staged a mutiny and before long became the master of a huge fleet of ships that scoured the ocean in search of gullable nightclub owners. Traveling blindly in circles for years, she was eventually blown off course and discovered a land called New Orleans where she invented the Blues. Some insightful member of the local constabulatory drove her to the city limits and told to take it on the road. Abandoning her former life, she has since peddled her special brand of caterwauling up and down the highways of this unprepared country spreading woe and sorrow through her slick remakes of old, over-worked Karen Carpenter tunes. The Mojo Phoenix Blues Empire is only her latest, fiendishly evil plan to rule the known universe before it is auctioned off later this year. Oh yeahÖand she drives the bus.
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      Today Tom Fuller cleverly pulls the strings behind the scenes forcing the band members to perform unspeakable acts for the unwary. But it was not always so easy for him. He began life as a four hundred pound, singing rodeo clown employed to clear the stands as soon as all the tickets were sold in order to make room for the next crowd. It is said by one old timer, who has since had his eardrums pierced, that Tomís shrieks could be heard for miles. It was a particularly rough period, and one which eventually caused Tom to reconsider his lifeís work. He has since abandoned the rubber nose and left the rodeo but his act remains basically the same. To keep his naughty hands from wandering he was given a bass guitar by a disgusted spectator. Recognizing easy money, he joined a traveling medicine show and eventually began dispensing the Blues to drunks, which were plentiful in those early times. The rest of the story is well known to anyone who follows this sort of thing and today he rules from high atop the mighty Mojo mega-corporation. His popularity is as perplexing as it is little-known.
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      Mike Huizenga has struggled for years with the little understood Drummerís Stool Syndrome which forces him to frequent water closets and doing the fearful shuffle. While teams of research doctors have labored night and day to come up with a cure, sadly they mostly focus on less-humorous diseases. Mike has bravely struggled on in anonymity, taking out his frustrations on the drums and his fellow bandmates
    . At the age of three, Mike made a seemingly casual remark that cost the family their high social status, humiliating them to the point that they were forced to move from the classy section of town, only to relocate four houses down the street where they live today in near poverty conditions. Mike lives above their five-stall, servantsí garage out back where his insane experiments with good taste continue to this day. Driven by an insatiable need to subvert all existing systems, he nevertheless manages to maintain his position as a bus stop and writes to his mother often. Although he has been labeled a social pariah, he beams with pride when displaying his treasured hate mail collection. On top of his other numerous accomplishments, he is a prize-winning bore. Letís face it: if not for the Mojo Phoenix Blues Band, Mike would be moved to a holding cell for intense observation. Get your immunization today!