After convincing a waif of a mademoiselle at the local inflatable bounce house establishment – Ramparts! Rocket ships! Low-rent light industrial location! – to part with her young Huckleberry Finn-type for the duration of one crisp October Saturday afternoon, we repaired to a nearby watering hole and petitioned the barkeep to desist with his usual collegiate pigskinnery and to kineticize the dial toward that purveyor of so much television cotton candy: Nickelodeon Junior. The resulting cry of anguish from the piliers de bar was quickly replaced by the bottomless trance of men enraptured by the soft glow of Philo T.…