Word: bleedingly
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Rudd, best known for his suave Alicia-charming role in Clueless, doesn't have a particularly difficult role. He is labeled the martyr from the outset, the "object of affection" that Aniston will sweat, cry and bleed over from beginning to end. Though he successfully avoids stereotypes, even Rudd seems sometimes uncomfortable with the dangerously unpredictable script. His character ultimately lacks coherence...
...lingering accusation of perjury against Clinton that never comes to any conclusion is also not much of a win for the Democrats. Republicans may be content to draw out the role of Congress in the inquiry as a way to bleed the Democrats through this year's election and into 2000, making the whole process a dagger aimed directly at the heart of Al Gore. Judiciary Committee chairman Henry Hyde could choose, for example, to hold "preliminary" hearings before ratcheting them up to full-scale impeachment hearings, after taking the maximum amount of time to study the truckload of documents...
...wears her finest gown and all of her jewelry to come play cards. Twice a month, I took my place among this vulgar spectacle to try my luck at Seven Card Stud or Texas Hold'em. My first few visits were far from pretty; not just a slow bleed of cash, more like an agonizing, gushing laceration. Soon I got the hang of things, the hand signals, the lingo, and before long I was turning a sizable profit. The first night that I returned home with a crisp Ben Franklin in my wallet, I knew that I was a casino...
...Delicatessen fame. Because of whole ship mama Sigourney Weaver. Because of genetics and the human attachment to willful mediocrity. Because we've never seen an alien underwater (where you also can't scream). Because bounty hunters watch the TV shopping network. Because of Dominique Pinon's forehead. Because aliens bleed acid, and androids bleed semen. Because alien-human hybrids have pixie noses. And, always, because of the deeper issues...
...plot is hardly a consolation when the scenes on which it depends can hardly command a modicum of even vague interest from readers. True, the novel's pages bleed together, but Bleeding London is a wounded creature. A writer once said of Ezra Pound, "he is a great poet who has never written a great poem." In the world of lyric prose, Nicholson neither leads nor follows. Rather, he occupies that awkward region in between--usually above reproach, seldom awe-inspiring--where many decent writers languish in anonymity. Bleeding London is, well, bloody awful...