Amanda Skinner

Recovering Attorney. Struggling Farmer.

[Amanda Skinner @ASkinner34070]

@AJLeatherman @dabblindoofus I honestly thought this was some kind of body swap ai picture.

[ARMY1325AIR @army1325air]

SPACE FORCE, GET THE FUCK IN HERE.

I have been roasting every branch and now it’s your turn, you intergalactic IT department.

Army sleeps in the dirt.

Marines eat crayons.

Navy lives on a floating apartment complex.

Air Force checks the hotel reviews before invading.

SPACE FORCE?

You motherfuckers joined the military because Best Buy Geek Squad didn’t have enough fucking authority.

Your branch sounds like something a drunk 12 year old created after watching Star Wars.

GUARDIANS.

Guardians of what?

The fucking HDMI cable?

Your combat zone has fluorescent lighting.

Your foxhole has lumbar support.

Your rucksack is a laptop bag.

Your weapon system has a fucking password reset button.

Some Army private is freezing his ass off in a fighting position while a Space Force Guardian is screaming:

WE’RE TAKING HEAVY FIRE!

Motherfucker, Outlook crashed.

Your version of land navigation is opening Google Maps.

Your version of close air support is moving the router closer to the fucking window.

Your version of enemy contact is somebody from China trying the WiFi password twice.

You don’t call artillery.

You call technical support.

Sir, satellite communications are down.

WHAT’S THE PLAN?

Unplug it for thirty seconds.

PROMOTE THAT MOTHERFUCKER.

Space Force PT test probably includes carrying two monitors up a flight of stairs without spilling a Monster.

These motherfuckers probably get combat patches for surviving a Windows update.

Imagine being captured by Space Force.

They wouldn’t interrogate you.

They’d lock your account after three failed login attempts.

Army has Rangers.

Navy has SEALs.

Marines have Raiders.

Space Force has motherfuckers named GUARDIANS sounding like they’re about to fight Thanos at fucking noon.

And yes, before some keyboard warrior has an aneurysm, Space Force has a serious mission.

Satellites.

Missile warning.

GPS.

Communications.

All important shit.

But military humor has never given a single fuck about your mission statement.

So thank you for your service, Guardians.

Now get your ass back upstairs and make sure Google Maps still knows where the fuck Sugar Bush Knolls, Ohio is.

Air Force, enjoy your fucking continental breakfast.

You’re tomorrow.

[Amanda Skinner @ASkinner34070]

@FreddyLA7 Goldenrod has started to bloom so cool weather should be about 6 weeks out.

[Amanda Skinner @ASkinner34070]

@MaximCrypto0 Hi

[Amanda Skinner @ASkinner34070]

@FreddyLA7 Palace! Best buffet in Biloxi!

[Sama Hoole @SamaHoole]

Cottonseed was a disposal problem.

Gins dumped it in rivers, until Procter & Gamble hardened the oil, called it Crisco and sold it as the modern answer to lard.

Whey was a disposal problem.

Cheesemakers poured it down drains and fed it to pigs, until somebody dried it, put it in a tub and sold it to gym members.

Skimmed milk was a disposal problem.

It was what remained when the cream went for butter.

It went to the pigs too, until it got a red top and a health claim.

Bran was a disposal problem.

Millers bagged it as animal feed, until Kellogg's boxed it in 1916 and sold it as regularity.

Rapeseed oil was a disposal problem.

Its market was lubricating ships' engines, and that died in 1945.

Canada bred out the worst of it, renamed it canola and called it heart-healthy.

Defatted soya was a disposal problem.

It was what the oil mills had left over, until it was textured, flavoured and sold as a burger.

Beet pulp, citrus peel and oat hulls were disposal problems.

They are now listed on the pack as added fibre.

Every item on that list has been sold to you as a health food.

Every item on that list began as something a factory was paying to get rid of.

Your great-grandmother knew exactly what to do with all of it.

She fed it to the pig and ate the pig.

It made the pig fat, incidentally. Nobody thought that needed a study.

[Amanda Skinner @ASkinner34070]

@bravescarly3 You were saying....?

[Amanda Skinner @ASkinner34070]

@BuzzPatterson Eh. If a woman isnt acting like a lady I don't blame a man for not being a gentleman to her. Didn't read the story to see details though - just my general rule.

[Amanda Skinner @ASkinner34070]

@BuildAfterWork I volunteer at a non profit all volunteer historical society. Next to our register we have a donation jar. If someone wants to donate, that's their choice without judgment but appreciation when they do. We refuse to add the round up donation to the card screen too.

[Amanda Skinner @ASkinner34070]

@therealDeFlock

[Harvey's Pistol & Pawn @harveyspistols]

Rascal found out he got to partner with the beloved & celebrated @RoofKorean7 for this week's giveaway and that varmint has been strutting around the shop with his chest puffed out all morning, lol.

We are happy to promote this great example of American resourcefulness and bravery as well as his book Rooftop Korean: Memoir of the 1992 L.A. Riots which is set to release tomorrow, 09/15/2026!

Tony said to do it right! So, we are including in this week the BALLISTIC ADDITION of his new book which has both a shot right through the title page but the legend's signature as well! These were very limited and I was very surprised he had one left to offer you fine folks!

We could not get Tony to throw in his Daewoo rifle, understable, so Rascal is coming through for you all with the new Harrington & Richardson Retro M16A1 20" 5.56 rifle!

Given X has new feelings about our festivities we are asking all the long time folks to inform our new friends of how it all works!

Please check out @wargate and https://t.co/aR3MjZBALk to make your purchase this week and support Tony!

Thanks, as always, to @SummRidge , and all others that help make these possible!

[Amanda Skinner @ASkinner34070]

@harveyspistols @RoofKorean7

[Amanda Skinner @ASkinner34070]

@CJGRISHAM @grok Alabama!

[Amanda Skinner @ASkinner34070]

@saracheeky1 McDonald's uses a fryer with hot oil. I dont think she's fit to work there either.

[NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依 @japan_nobunaga]

After September 11, more than a million tons of the World Trade Center was loaded onto barges and shipped to a garbage dump on Staten Island.

Then hundreds of men and women stood at conveyor belts for ten months and picked through every ounce of it by hand.

They were looking for people.

The place is called Fresh Kills. For fifty years it was the largest landfill in the world. It took its last barge of household trash on March 22, 2001, and shut down for good. New York was finally done with it.

Five and a half months later, at two o'clock in the morning on September 12, the landfill's director got a phone call at home. He had just walked in the door.

Two trucks were at the gate. They were carrying pieces of the World Trade Center.

He drove back.

The man who ran the dump would later say, without any drama, that if Fresh Kills had not been closed, this could never have happened. There would have been no room. The garbage would have been in the way.

The site was empty. So that is where the towers went.

Here is how it worked.

At Ground Zero, cranes and grapplers lifted the debris into dump trucks. The trucks drove to a pier on the Hudson. There, the load went onto barges, six hundred tons at a time. The barges were towed down the harbor, past the Statue of Liberty, to Staten Island. More than fifteen hundred barges made the trip.

At Fresh Kills, sanitation workers unloaded them onto a hill.

And then the sorting began.

The debris was mechanically screened into three sizes. Chunks bigger than eight inches. Two to eight inches. A quarter inch to two inches. Anything smaller than a quarter of an inch, the size of a fingernail, fell through the last sieve.

Everything above that size went onto a conveyor belt.

And along the belts stood the detectives.

NYPD. FBI. Port Authority police. Medical examiners. Dressed head to toe in white Tyvek suits, in masks, in gloves, on a hill that stank of jet fuel and pulverized concrete and things nobody wanted to name. Looking down at the belt, hour after hour, as the towers rolled past them a fist-sized chunk at a time.

When they saw something, they reached in and took it, and placed it in a white bucket at their feet.

A wedding ring. A photo ID. A set of keys. A shoe.

A piece of a person.

The white buckets went to a tent that served as a morgue.

The volume was beyond comprehension. In mid-September the operation was processing 1,750 tons of debris a day. By mid-October, 17,500 tons a day. Ten times more. Round the clock. The 200-acre hill was declared a federal crime scene and stayed one for ten months.

A retired NYPD detective later wrote down what a shift looked like, because almost nobody outside knew it existed.

You wake at 3 a.m. You get a giant coffee. You drive two hours in the dark from Orange County, through New Jersey, to Staten Island. You park at the bottom of a hill that looks like the end of the world. You put on the white suit. You go to your belt. You stand there. You look.

Then you drive two hours home and do it again tomorrow.

Sanitation workers pulled sixteen-hour shifts, seven days a week. One of them, a supervisor named Barry Asnes, said afterward what kept him there. We were attacked on our own soil, in the city where I was born. This was personal.

The operation did not stop for weather. It did not stop for Christmas. It ran until July 2002. Ten months.

By the end, the men and women on that hill had recovered thousands of human remains. Tens of thousands of personal effects. Wallets, badges, wedding bands, photographs, all cleaned and catalogued and returned to families who had nothing else to bury.

When they were finished, the remaining material was placed in a 48-acre section of the landfill, a mound two hundred and twenty-five feet high, and covered.

It is a park now.

Many of the men and women who stood on that hill have lung disease. Asthma. Cancer. PTSD. The air they were breathing, eight and ten and sixteen hours a day, was full of the towers. Some of them have died of it.

Almost nobody knows their names. Almost nobody knows the place.

Mention Fresh Kills and 9/11 in the same sentence, the retired detective wrote, and most people will have no idea what you are talking about.

Here is what you should know.

Two thousand seven hundred and fifty-three people were murdered in those towers. Only about six in ten have ever been identified.

Every one of those identifications came out of a white bucket.

Every wedding ring returned to a widow. Every badge returned to a firehouse. Every fragment of bone matched to a name and buried with a headstone instead of a question mark.

Somebody in a white suit, standing at a belt on a garbage dump at four in the morning, reached into the World Trade Center as it rolled past, and picked that person up, and put them in a bucket, and sent them home.

They did that for ten months.

Nobody applauded on the hill. There was nobody to watch.

They did it anyway. 🇺🇸

[Fr. Chris Vorderbruggen @FatherChrisVor1]

The body of a Christian priest was carried from the ruins of the World Trade Center by five men. His head had suffered fatal trauma from the collapse. His white clerical collar was still visible. The photograph would become one of the defining images of September 11.

Today is September 11, 2026, twenty-five years since that terrible morning. And tonight I want to tell you the story of Father Mychal Judge.

It began on an almost impossibly beautiful September morning in New York City.

At 8:46 a.m., American Airlines Flight 11 struck the North Tower.

Firefighters, police officers and paramedics began moving toward something nobody yet fully understood.

And so did a priest.

Father Mychal Judge was a Catholic priest, a Franciscan friar, and chaplain to the New York City Fire Department.

He was 68 years old.

He grew up in Brooklyn, the son of Irish immigrants, and entered the Franciscans as a young man. His ministry took him among the homeless, people struggling with addiction, people dying of AIDS, grieving families, and the firefighters he loved deeply.

He knew suffering himself. Father Mychal was a recovering alcoholic.

By 2001, the firefighters of New York were his family.

So when the call came that morning, Father Mychal left St. Francis of Assisi on West 31st Street and went downtown with them.

He entered the North Tower.

Inside were smoke, shattered glass, injured and frightened people, and firefighters preparing to climb into an inferno while thousands desperately tried to escape.

Father Mychal did what a priest does.

He prayed.

He blessed.

He stayed with the dying.

He administered the last rites to a fallen firefighter.

Then, at 9:59 a.m., the South Tower collapsed.

The force of the collapse blasted debris into the lobby of the North Tower. Father Mychal was thrown backward and suffered fatal blunt-force injuries to his head.

He died among the people he had come to serve.

Five men carried his body out: firefighters Christian Waugh and Zachary Vause, NYPD Lieutenant William Cosgrove, rescue worker Kevin Allen, and civilian John Maguire.

Reuters photographer Shannon Stapleton raised his camera.

The photograph he captured has sometimes been called an American Pietà.

A dead priest being carried through the devastation in the arms of other men.

They brought Father Mychal’s body to nearby St. Peter’s Church and laid him before the altar.

Later, the medical examiner assigned him the designation Victim 0001.

Not because he was necessarily the first person to die that morning.

He was the first body formally recovered and certified.

Victim 0001 was a priest.

There is something about that which has stayed with me.

Twenty-five years ago, while I sat with my parents in Minnesota watching those towers fall, I was not yet a priest. I did not know Father Mychal Judge. But looking back now, as a priest myself, I realize that somewhere inside that devastation, one of my fraternal brothers had done what a priest is supposed to do.

He showed up.

He went where people were suffering.

And he stayed.

The Roman Catholic Church has not canonized Father Mychal Judge, and no formal cause for his canonization has yet been opened, although many have called for one.

So I am going to stretch across those ecclesial boundaries tonight.

I will not declare what the Church has not declared.

But I will ask a Christian brother who died serving his people to pray with us before the throne of God.

Father Mychal Judge, Christian priest, Franciscan friar, chaplain, brother:

Please pray for us.

Pray for the dead of September 11.

Pray for their families.

Pray for the firefighters, police officers, paramedics and ordinary people who carried one another through hell that day.

Pray for our country.

And pray for those of us given the terrible and beautiful responsibility of bringing Christ into places where people are suffering.

Father Mychal Judge, pray for us.

Amen.

[Amanda Skinner @ASkinner34070]

@SabrinaMessa95 You're sorry it 'upset so many people'. No reflection on why people are upset and what kind of person you've shown yourself to be by posting such things. Zero lessons learned just upset about the consequences.

[Amanda Skinner @ASkinner34070]

@emilymiller @NationalMallNPS @NatlParkService @DOWResponse Just fyi- Honor Flight sent out a notice today the work would continue through the middle of October.

[Amanda Skinner @ASkinner34070]

@emilymiller @NationalMallNPS @NatlParkService @DOWResponse Thank you!