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It's an armpit.
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It's not an armpit.
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Excuse me. You're right.
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It's the Paris of the Southwest.
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Please, it's Texas, for God's sake.
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Right on the border of lawless Mexican hell.
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Human heads, they leave.
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The cartels, they litter the place with human heads.
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Pretty sure that's why I'm going there.
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It's like a calling card or a shout-out or something.
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Now, D.C., on the other hand, I could get behind.
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You just do your time like a good boy,