Per 
This is an idea I've been mulling for awhile. Some admin at the Foundation (or maybe the Foundation itself) is a bit of a hoarder, and keeps records/remains of the terrible skips that were deleted from the site for being awful or boring.
Basically, those skips actually existed, and are kept in a warehouse (a la the end of Raiders), but it's boring. The people who work there are office drones, nothing that gets stored there is interesting but they have to catalog it, and no one likes working there.
It's a tongue-in-cheek way to acknowledge the variety of skips, good and bad, that get submitted to the site.
The Warehouse
Evan sighed. Every night was the same: he arrived on site, passing through voice, retinal, and genetic identity checks, through four separate airlocks, and two security checkpoints before he even got to the reception desk. Trudging up to the login console, he grunted a greeting to the woman behind the desk.
"Evening, Evan," said Rose, not looking up from her crossword. He grumbled a half-reply as he signed in on four separate forms. "Evening, Rose. Any activity?" "The shipment arrived earlier today with material from Sites 15, 73, and 81," she said, still focused on her puzzle. Well, those wouldn't be too bad. Site 15 was always easy — mostly documents and fried computer parts, and 73 and 81 generally sent paperwork and research notes with the odd anomalous but harmless object. "Oh, and a shipment from Site 66." Evan swore under his breath — Site 66 handled biological anomalies, which meant no fewer than eighteen different forms, in triplicate, he would have to fill out for each object, in addition to wearing the stupid biohazard suit with the boots that never fit quite right.
Site 66's decontamination procedures were effective enough that they hadn't ever sent anything actually dangerous, but management didn't want to take any chances. So effective that nothing interesting had ever come out of Site 66.
In fact, the most exciting thing to come out of any site in the twenty-some-odd years he had worked for the Foundation was when one of the delivery drivers hit a railing and knocked open a cage in transit. Evan caught a glimpse of something escaping the cage and immediately put the site on lockdown, but the escapee turned out to be a racoon. A goddamn, run-of-the-mill, regular raccoon that had been already determined to have absolutely no anomalous properties. Evan was commended for his quick actions, but he knew the other employees at the site mocked him behind his back for being the "raccoon wrangler."
He finished logging in he nodded at Rose and headed to the locker room. He changed into his uniform, absentmindedly noting that he had been issued the brown socks today. Those were his favorite — they were just a little thicker than the black ones, and the material felt better on his feet. Once he was dressed he traveled through two more airlocks and an additional security checkpoint and began his route.
Site 52 was not a research or containment site as much as it was a warehouse: research logs, interview transcripts, and anomalous items that were either decommissioned or not interesting enough to receive an official SCP designation. Of course, all of the interesting objects were stored in specially-marked crates that he couldn't so much as sneeze at without security berating him for 'breaking protocol'. Evan felt a twinge of jealousy. There were rumors some workers even got to use some of the objects. He'd overheard someone bragging about trying out the Ultimate Spice Grinder to grind up a flashlight that should have been too big to fit.
He quietly worked his way through shelves of massive crates. Each was carefully and thoroughly documented, and he'd passed by each one enough times that he knew their contents. On his left was the feeding apparatus for the steel-eating ant enclosure, then the self-playing music box that trapped listeners as its ballerina figurine for 24 hours. There was the joke book that made any joke written within unfunny, the piano that sounded like a trumpet, and rows of various creepy dolls. Out of all of them, the decommissioned cube entities were his favorite. They had the courtesy to be easy to stack and store.
He moved onto the records storage. As he entered the massive room lit up with a sterile fluorescent light. He found the harsh glow distasteful, but apparently the bulbs were specially constructed to deter paper aging and insects. And the smell. God how he hated the stench of old paperwork, the mustiness of the dried ink and cardboard boxes.
He continued into the "Friendly" wing, which contained hundreds of small, harmless entities the Foundation had deemed unimportant. The sight of all those cute, friendly creatures in slightly-too-small cages was heartbreaking — at least, they had been, years ago. Despite being unable to interact with them, he'd grown attached to a few, only to have them 'decommissioned' soon after.
The ones that were kept alive for whatever reason stared blankly at him as he shuffled past.
Finally he reached the loading area. Three immense shipping containers loomed silently, each marked with the logo of a shell corporation. He sighed as he reached for the first manifest. Only 118 pages — must have been a slow day at Site 15.
Well, at least the benefits were good.
