Marshmallows Do Not Belong on Spinach Dip

So I'm at a New Year's Eve party given by a college friend. Everyone is having fun, drinking a few beers and eating spinach dip (I would recommend leaving the marshmallows off next time) and waiting for the ball to drop. Suddenly, the party is invaded by a bunch of loud drunks, who announce that it is their intention to lock everyone in while they polish off the rest of the beer. Because I have a baby, I'm allowed to leave, although my baby is not George but a girl named Isabella, who, the closer I get to my car, starts to resemble not so much a baby as a pink toy elephant dressed in a pink-and-white checked jumpsuit. I call 911 to rescue my friends. The address is 133 Red Crest Circle. As I speed away, the girlfriend of one of the party crashers chases me . . .