Author: DeViney, Jack
Six Degrees of Knowin’ Nothin’: [Untitled]
- DeViney, Jack
- 13 August 2020

Does this era need introduction? Or, rather, may a suitable introduction be written? I report, you deride.
1: In any rational era, the sudden appearance
Fabriqué en Babylon: Mueller’s Brass Tacks Vol. 2
- DeViney, Jack
- 12 May 2019

Beyond the distinct possibility being the more innocuous explanation previously stated by the Special Counsel himself, the assertion that McGhan is beyond reproach, that he had “no motive to lie or
Fabriqué en Babylon: Mueller’s Brass Tacks Vol. 1
- DeViney, Jack
- 18 April 2019

Quite a few million taxpayer dollars, countless hurt feelings and one slightly disgruntled POTUS later, I had my chance at last to consume the report of The Special Counsel, one Robert S. Mueller III.
Black History Month: Being About It
- DeViney, Jack
- 17 February 2018

Talking about what might’ve been and thinking about what used to be only goes so far. Certainly not one opposed to reminiscing, I was wracked with grief over the comments
The Living and The Dead: Dystopia as Pastime [or: “The Road to Megiddo”]
- DeViney, Jack
- 19 January 2018

If you’re awake and at all oriented to the world at large, you needn’t go far from the comforts of your mobile phone, laptop or television-hub to
Fabriquè en Babylon: Here There Be Monsters “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.” - Friedrich Nietzsche
- DeViney, Jack
- 15 December 2017

Someday, we will look back knowing that Donald Trump gave birth to the 21st century. In a time where life is cheap and peace a punchline from the footnotes
EDITORIAL: Don’t Eat The Rich
- DeViney, Jack
- 21 September 2017
This becomes irresponsibility, this relentless notion of “progressives” that life can be perfectly equitable and fair if only the central (Federal)
30 April, 2017: A Creed For All Seasons
- DeViney, Jack
- 13 June 2017
It’s not often in this foul year of our Lord, two-thousand seventeen, that any verbose armchair scribe lacks for subject matter worthy of dissecting. Yet with