By Terry Fallis
Eve of Equality, a brand new feminist weblog, turns into an in a single day sensation while a wildly well known speak express host stumbles upon it, tweets approximately it, and promotes it on her exhibit. The nameless weblog is clever, considerate, and impressive, overtly taking over a variety of injustices within the lives of ladies. yet it's the blogger Eve's submit concerning the debatable entrepreneur at the back of XY, a brand new chain of top of the range strip golf equipment starting up around the state, that units off a firestorm. In a question of hours, the location crashes, its Twitter count number jumps from a paltry 19 fans to just about 250,000, and Eve is unexpectedly lauded because the new voice of recent feminism.
yet who, precisely, is the Eve in the back of Eve of Equality? good . . . no longer who chances are you'll imagine. Meet Everett Kane, aspiring author and fervent feminist. He writes his erudite weblog in his new house, at his kitchen desk, and his lifestyles is set to alter forever.
Hilarious and clever, and supplying well timed statement on an issue that's flooding our headlines, newsfeeds, Twitter streams, and conversations, Poles Apart is Terry Fallis at his most sensible, confirming his prestige as a king of CanLit comedy.
From the alternate Paperback edition.
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He joined the line. Karstetz moved back into the room and perched on the corner of a table, an unconscious echo of how Cabal had first seen the Count Marechal. But where Marechal had watched him closely, Karstetz only grinned amiably, looked around the room with little interest, and started to hum an unlovely melody for the tuba. Cabal found an antique high-backed chair and made himself comfortable. The crowd went deadly quiet as the emperor, Antrobus II of Mirkarvia, made his appearance. There had been plentiful rumours of his death floating about; despite Marechal’s threats and Karstetz’s enthusiasm, the imperial household leaked gossip like a buckshotted bucket.
The people had been half looking forward to a nice revolution. And now up popped Antrobus, quite spoiling things. Still, they gave a cheer. The beer and sausages were free and they didn’t wish to appear churlish. They’d let him have his say and then have a revolution next week, after a decent interval. They were a downtrodden mass, but they had been brought up nicely. Antrobus stepped up to the balcony rail and paused. And paused. The moment grew to impolite and impolitic length. The dignitaries in the line shot glances at one another.
First and foremost, he considered himself a scientist embarked upon a search for a cure for a terrible disease. Death. This would seem laudable if it were not for his methods, his manner, and his failed experiments, the latter tending to hang around the countryside, dismaying the yokels. Even this might have been forgivable—pharmaceutical companies have done worse—if it were not for the bad reputation that the more melodramatic necromancers have given the profession. Skeletal warriors are all very well when they’re chasing Jason and the Argonauts around on the silver screen, but when they’re battering down your door … Well, that’s a different matter altogether.