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As part of our commenting initiatives, we periodically reiterate for novice and senile readers the way our glorious commenting perestroika works. "How," you ask, "can I become a member of exclusive, rarefied star chamber known as the Gawker commenting community?"

Now that you've already purchased every available Gawker t-shirt in each size and color, you've no doubt experienced the resultant increase in aesthetic admiration, worldly rewards, and sexual prowess. You've made it, and you don't have to prove anything to anyone. So you can afford to dispense with clever sloganeering and obscure pop-culture references. Now is the time for the pure Gawker logo tee, set on a relaxed field of heather grey. This is the kind of garment that tells the world, "Hey, I have purchased this t-shirt, and am now wearing it." Observe as wealthy and attractive pedestrians actually cross the street toward you for once, wanting to get a better look at the elegant simplicity of your confident personal style. You've earned this. And if you've also somehow earned $20, you'll soon be slipping it on.

• Yara Flinn went to Oberlin. Also, she's read Kafka. [Friendster]
  

Our commenter execution policy is tough but fair (and, let's face it, no permanent bar to re-entry.) Occasionally, however, one of the executed becomes so irate by having been banned that they wind up providing us with a fairly strong confirmation that out initial judgment was correct. After the jump we bring you the angry ramblings of a former Gawker commenter. We're gonna go ahead and assume that the [sic] is implied.

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We love and live for your tips. Seriously! And while we wish we had time to send each and every one of you a handwritten, SWAK thank-you note, we have to, like, write this site and obsess over the humiliating pictures of ourselves on Ambrel and stuff. So we hope you'll accept this blanket thank-you. And hey! If you care to learn how you can become even nearer and dearer to our cold little hearts than you already are, please traipse along past the jump. We promise it won't hurt.

Did you miss us? And by "us," we mean bloody commenter revenge murders. Sometimes we like to give the commenting population an extra week to straighten up, but that time is past. And just to make up for our forbearance, you'll get more blood than usual today. A quartet of criminals go on the block, for their day is done. Consider it a meaty sacrifice on the altar of our new political age. So, let's clamber up the corpse-strewn ziggurat and see who's dead.

Just too late for Halloween but just in time for retail holiday season, here's another method to fritter away valuable cash. By popular demand, we've reprinted a fresh new run of a long-term best-selling Gawker t-shirt, the estimable "It's Like, Yeah, Motherfucker, I'm Fine" model. Don't believe that silly backorder notice, as we have hundreds — no, trillions — of shiny new shirts coming in, just for you. Buy them now. Buy them, we said. Think of it as a way to celebrate our newly reclaimed democracy.

As part of our commenting initiatives, we periodically reiterate for novice and senile readers the way our glorious commenting perestroika works. "How," you ask, "can I become a member of exclusive, rarefied star chamber known as the Gawker commenting community?" (Besides sneaking past our invincible defenses, of course.)

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The road to receiving an invitation to comment on Gawker is an arduous one, demanding wit, favor, or personal friendship with Gawker administrators. Alternately, you could talk to this guy, who's giving them away like candy.

From a marketing sheet for Village Voice gossipist Michael Musto's new book. Nothing but love for the Musto, but "original voice of snark"? Chronology aside, who would even want that title? Reminds us of when Camille Paglia revealed that she invented blogs. And if you're pegging your book push to name-checking Gawker, you may already be in trouble. Ourselves cheerfully excepted of course!

Oh, hello there. I'm Doree Shafrir, and what my new jailers like to call an associate editor. For your sanity and mine, they've benevolently granted me the late monkey-helper shift, which means your afternoons will be that much more enlightening, and also leaves me more time for my various other extracurricular pursuits. Now, who am I, you ask? Well. Some of you may remember me as the girl who confessed her love for Kevin Federline, but really, that's ancient history at this point. I've moved on to bigger and easier targets, like Chuck Klosterman, a dead horse I resolve to continue kicking long past the point of rationality. Honestly, though, he likes the attention.

Hello, my name is Emily Gould. If you're anything like the Daily Intelligencer, you know "virtually nothing" about me, and, much as I'd like to keep it that way, my new slavedrivers have encouraged me to tell you a little bit about myself. Sooo. Monday was my last day as an associate editor at Hyperion Books, which might lead you to think that all those Unsolicited columns I wrote were based somewhat on my experiences there. Au contraire! I am actually a remarkable fabulist — hey, don't forget I'm also 50% responsible for a book about teenage witches — and I based all that stuff on crazy dreams I had.

Oh, why am I bothering? Obviously I sold out everyone I know and I'll never work in book publishing again. But just in case there's still a chance for me, I take this, my final opportunity to be sincere (and to write in the first person) for god knows how long, to apologize. I like you, agents and editors and authors. I hope you'll KIT, especially with news about, like, shitty proposals that sat in inboxes around town for quite a while before selling for too much dough, that kind of thing. Anyway, sorry! Hear that? I am starting my tenure here with a public apology. Strap on your helmets, my friends.

Please join us in welcoming these fine additions to the dysfunctionally combative Gawker family. The two ladies in the accompanying photo are new co-editor Emily Gould (at right) and new associate editor Doree Shafrir (at left).

Things seem to be going swimmingly for Gawker editor Alex Balk over at Deadspin, don't you agree? Around here, we're quite accustomed to (a) calling people gay, (b) calling people homophobes, (c) being called reverse-homophobic for projecting homophobia onto others, and (d) being gay, but it's nice to see the same cycle holding true throughout the land. In addition to welcoming the various Deadspin commenters who've seen fit to visit, we commend those Gawker commenters who've made the reverse commute. And yes, we admit that our banning finger may have twitched more than usual today. Normally we would be all too eager to commence the next round of commenter executions, but that would be terribly inhospitable. Plus, unlike some, we try not to shit where we eat. So go nuts — other than instant death for standard troll/spam behavior, no commenter will be banned for anything said until Balk finishes out his sentence at Deadspin. To put it another way: Do your worst. We aint' a-scared of you.

As mentioned last week, our fine guest editor Spinachdip will continue to blog for your reading pleasure through tomorrow. After that, we'll just figure something else out, somehow. Meanwhile, we're sad to report that there was no sign of our office appearance on this past weekend's Saturday Night Live, and it was rather painful scanning through that episode even on Tivo fast-forward. Perhaps the bit will turn up in NBC's online dustbin. Lastly, be sure to tune in on Tuesday for editor Alex Balk's self-immolation, where he blogs full-time both here and over at Deadspin in payment of his lost World Series wager. Treat him gently.

The hive of Gawker interns has grown large enough that they may specialize in certain tasks, assuming they evolve the properly chitinous thorax. We're seeking a new intern to assist with photography, specifically original photography. This person will rarely take pictures, if ever; instead, they will assist Gawker photogs with the hairy process of sorting, uploading, identifying, captioning, and other charming tedium. In addition, this person will help oversee the schedule for events worthy of Gawker coverage. Regular contact with objectionable publicist types is all but guaranteed. Attending events to assist photogs with subject wrangling and alcohol disposal encouraged. Non-negotiable requirements: Must live in New York City. Must be adept with Flickr, competent with basic Photoshop, have at least one eye for photos, and be generally image-savvy. Must have reliable free time during mornings after events in order to help process photos. There is some small pay involved. If interested, write in with a very brief paragraph justifying your suitability to gawkslave@gmail.com.

You may recall our World Series wager with Will Leitch of Deadspin: Should Leitch's Cardinals win it all, we'd do a full day of his posts on the sports site in addition to our duties here, while if our Tigers prevailed Will would be forced to do twenty-four posts in a day across the sites. Well, after last night's 5-4 Cardinals victory, it's looking increasingly likely that you're stuck with us. Yeah, you gotta believe, anything could happen, teams have come back from bigger deficits before, etc.; barring inclement weather the whole thing will be over one way or the other by Sunday. We're reminding you of this bet not to elicit any sympathy for our plight (don't worry about us, we've got a shoebox full of crank and a copy of The Sporting News) but as a warning: Should we, in fact, be manning both helms on Tuesday we have a very strong suspicion that Deadspin's commenters will be following us over here and, to be frank, those people are animals. Be prepared.