Hello commenters. Our Jack Ketch is away on a vacation of sorts this week, so he was not able to supply us with a list of the damned. I guess we'll just have to improvise. People were on mostly good behavior this week, save for a few rapscallions who made uncalled for attacks on our sister site Jezebel. They've had their knuckles rapped and have atoned, so we'll let them live to see another day. But we know how you love a public execution, so we've scraped together a couple of sorry souls who will perish for your amusement, after the jump.

Don't forget to RSVP to commenter thesupergoddess (thesupergoddess at gmail dot com) if you're planning on attending next week's Commenter Meet-Up. That way the organizers can get a sense of how many people are planning on coming, and might change the venue if it looks to be a lot. Oh, and look! There are now t-shirts available! Insanity.

Hey Gawker commenters! Would you like to push your chairs away from your desks and head out into the New York air to actually meet, face-to-face, some of your commenter brethren? You do, right?? Well it's a good thing then that commenters Phyllis Nefler and the supergoddess are organizing a Commenters Ball! Or, at least, a group meet-up at a bar. They'll be holding court at the Scratcher, a watering hole located at 209 E. 5th st, on Wednesday June 11. Starts at 7pm and goes until the bartender kicks our sorry drunken asses out. Hope to see you there!

As I spend this last day of being twenty-four staring down, with bleary eyes, the prospect of turning a quarter century old at midnight tonight, I'm finding solace in a few comforting things. Large, earthenware pots full of homemade wines, whole cigarette packs lit ablaze and smoked like pan flutes, and you, dear commenters, who make me chuckle. Yes, it may be an aged and weary chuckle that ominously shakes my frail, weathered body, but it's chuckling nonetheless. And for that I am grateful. I am especially grateful to six of you, who will be awarded with that most prestigious award, a Commie, after the jump. I remember when I won my first, lo those many months ago. Ah, to be young again.

Hey, hey, hey! It's time for some people to calm the fuck down... Abbe Diaz. I don't care who you are or what you've published—this kind of ad hominem, personal commenting-attack won't be tolerated here, because it's unintelligent and immature. And also, because I said so. The monkeys may be running the zoo here—but luckily, I'm one of them. That's all.

Well, we've made it through another one, eh? The work week is over. (Sucks to be you, Spiegelman!) What will you do this weekend? Will you indulge in spirits and women of questionable morals? Will you be a woman of questionable morals? Will you simply stay at the computer, furtively toggling between Gawker and that "Brazen Asians" site you like so much? Well, I can guarantee that six of you commenters will be enjoying the most glorious, soaringly happy weekend of your lives. Because six of y'all are about to be COMMIE'D. But who will it be? Find out after that thing that Kriss Kross will make ya do.

Last night, as I settled into my favorite chair, the one upholster'd with the skin of ill-temper'd puppies, I was content. Her Grace Sheila had taken care of some unpleasantness earlier, and I thought my work was done for the week. I was content to merely sharpen my axe and watch the uneven yet amusing season finale of The Office. But I was interrupted by the incessant vibrations of my Blackberry. (Lovely technologickal advances in 2008.) All these elecotronick letters pointed me to the same post. It seems that some of you just don't get it. Here at Gawker, we don't anonymously slander the physical appearance of others. If you continue to feel it necessary to mock those you find unattractive, you will no longer be welcome here. However, mocking the stupid things that people do is wholly encouraged. For instance, feel free to dance on the graves of the sodding twits listed after the jump.

The big news of the week (for me, what are "primaries"?) was Gossip Girl's epic stunner of an episode in which, in the thumping crazy final seconds, we discovered that newly pious Serena van der Woodsen was a murderer. Murder! Big news! The news today is, as it is every Friday, that, like a pack of crazed blond millionaires, you guys continue to slay us. (This is the worst introduction ever, I realize. But I'm all nerves about this "Summit" tonight and can't think straight.) So after the jump, find six of the week's best tippy-typing.

Here at the gay liberal art school grad white people headquarters, we are, to a man, (or woman if you care to whine about such things) flawlessly beautiful gay liberal art school grad white people. Most of the time, this is wonderful. What could be better than a salon of erudite and sexy conversants, even if some of them are zombified and utterly annoying exhibitionists? It is a shame, therefore, that some of you have to be witless fops and find your insults of the appearance of others to be contributions most valid.

While most of you lot are still gawking at the corpses of your friends, it is important to keep on with the business of living. As President Morgan Freeman says in Deep Impact: "I'm the president." But, also some things about marching on in the face of terrible tragedy. So I urge you to gather here (or, rather, after the jump) and revel in the successes of your peers; six noble souls who looked at an empty comment box and dared to ask "Why not?"

A few days yore, as I was sifting through the excrement of Fleet ditch the comments, an epiph'ny struck my pate. I, your faithful executioner, have fail'd you. I negleckted to explain the diff'rence betwixt a comment that pleases me, and a comment that makes me wonder if maybe I should give Buzz Bissinger a weapon and your home address. Prithee accept mine apology for such noisome oversight. After the jump, I shall present a full explanation for why you may be executed.

One of the things I never figured out about the internet is why certain sites have commenters, who those commenters are, and what compels them to do what they do. It's one thing to spend your time commenting on a site that has witty, engaging repartee, like this one. But some other places are inexplicable. Like one that came to my attention today: DailyPuppy.com. It exists to post puppy pictures. Okay, fine, I have nothing negative to say about that, dog Nazis. But do said puppy pictures require 90 comments just today, which all sound like this actual example: "Oh baby you are such a cutie-pie. A zillion biscuits and cuddles poppet and have a wonderful life. xxxxxxxxxxx." GOD. It really challenges your ability to even continue liking puppies. Below are some more of the deep thoughts on Chloe the Labrador Retriever, today's puppy (pictured). This dog can't read, you fools!

Farewell to Fred_Istare, anagram sam, Chief Wahoo, izzodee554, annasballs, Kelly Kreth, and SuperUnison. Your thoughts on the physical appearance of the crazy Dartmouth professor were HILARIOUS!! Prats.

Sometimes I do things that aren't Gawker related. Usually I do them at night time. These activities include going to movies, taking walks with friends, reading a book at a diner counter, or getting stoned on the couch and squealing at the TV. OK, so I only actually do the last thing, but the point is I'm not (usually) on the computer at night. But you are. And so is Ryan Tate! Our tireless nighttime editor, so far away on the West Coast, is usually in bed when I ask for Commie submissions. So this morning he beat me to the punch and sent over some of his favorites. After the jump find five of the best sleepy time (night and early morning) comments, and of course your Party Pick of the week.

This noble task, the killing of the sinful, is not as easy as one may suspect. It is with a heavy heart that I ply the tools of my trade: the axe, the noose, the adorable little "kill kill kill" button that you all have next to your names. Trust that I do not take such responsibility lightly. For instance, I thought about executing everyone who doesn't like Tina Fey. Yet then I realized that tolerance—even of the incredibly stupid—is a virtue. But I am virtuous only to a point. Therefore, the really incredibly stupid lie headless after the jump.

As some of us tear down the institution from within, others continue to build it up from without. I am speaking of you, dear commenters, who may bicker and snipe but in the end mostly say funny things that make us happy. So, as we mourn the faithful departed, let us also celebrate some of those who linger on. After the jump, find six of the week's best efforts.

In my time, we had famous, celebrat'd men known as playwrights. Today, these savants are known as "baristas," or "homeless people." The most famous of all, Sir William Shakespeare, in an early draft of one of his most famous sonnets, wrote: "All the world's a stage, and it's time for some of you to get the fuck off." Appropriate, methinks. Past yonder jump hang this week's condemned.

OMG. Richard is out of town this afternoon, and he's left the Commies to me. It's both a responsibility and a privilege. Each week, scores of people comment, sharing your thoughts and fears, hopes and joys. Sharing your snark. Yet each week, only a few are chosen as the best. Um, not that winning really matters! This week, it's all about how you feel.

Some of you may have seen some recent comments by Jack Ketch, who speaks in olden tongue and scolds you for scurrilous commentary. Starting today, Mr. Ketch will be acting as our official executioner, much like the real Jack Ketch of old. As we laud five commenters every week in the Commies, he will dispatch five troublesome typers every Friday. Everyone has a reprieve this week, but be on your toes! Jack will be lurking in the comments, giving you warnings of possible doom. Then, next Friday, five heads will roll.