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One of the parents suggested we say a prayer. I disagreed. God would say we got ourselves into the mess, we should get ourselves out. Literally. God would have said, “Grab your children and get out of that pit of sin.” He would have been right. If we were staying, waiting on the headliner, it was going to be on us. I was about to find the girls and head out when Post Malone came on stage. He is even more bad-looking and more adorable in real life. I decided to stick it out. My text messages to the girls evolved from “check in with me every 15 minutes” to “try your best not to inhale.” Before the night was over, the messages were, “Are you alive?” I was relieved each time to see the bouncing dots and then a simple “yes.” Overall, I enjoyed the show. The opening acts should be ashamed of themselves, and I should be ashamed for sitting through them. But Post Malone brought down the house. It took forever to get out of the parking lot like it always does. A kid was selling concert t-shirts, and I was caught up in the moment. I handed my 20 out the window, and he tossed me a shirt. Time passed. Back to our routine. One day my daughter came downstairs wearing a shirt with the words “beer bong” on the front. “Where in the world did you get that shirt?” I asked, “and go take it off right now.” My child loved pointing out it was the shirt from our Post Malone adventure—the shirt that I bought for her. The name of the tour was “Beer Bong and Bentley’s.” Who knew? I took a Sharpie and marked out the words “beer” and “bong.” Now, her t-shirt had two versions—just like pop music. We went from a parking lot version of a t-shirt to a back-home version. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Tammy Davis lives in Columbia. Even though you would never know it after reading this story, she is pretty good mother. If you decide to search some of Malone’s music, fair warning, make sure you listen to the clean versions.