from the lost files of whiz (died 1/24/14)

 after whiz died a file cabinet was found full of intelligent files like this:

You are driving on the highway. To your left, a ratty minivan. Behind you, an insolent monken mongrel is flashing his high beams at you, so bright that you can’t determine the make and model of his vehicle, urging you to switch lanes. Perhaps he has to use the restroom, and he needs to clear his path so that he can travel to the toilet more swiftly. He turns off his high beams for a split second, and you catch a glimpse of his gray eyes, circled with dead, brown skin; he has lived a difficult life, and a bathroom-themed accident on the highway would not be a fair addition to his presumably long list of woes. You wrestle with the decision to let him pass you or not. However, it is no matter, for you are approaching a turbine.

Its propellers blow easily in the evening wind. It makes a whoosh so silently that it might not be making any sound at all. Its silver-white glimmer gives it a mythological quality, like the ancient Egyptian limestone obelisks of old. Could the turbine, too, be built from limestone? No, no. Alas, in our materialistic society, none, particularly not the college-educated wind engineers, would dare use precious raw ore to develop such a seemingly mundane tool as the turbine. It is built from a composite of hard plastic, white steel, and solid poison. The last ingredient is surprising: poison is either liquid or gaseous, is it not? It is not. Solid poison goes easily unnoticed in the daily errands of human life. It is white, grainy, and can be blended with many materials. It is a pure carcinogen: its only scientific property, its involuntary goal, one might say, is to spread disease, infections, cancer, conditions, and, last but not least, syndromes. If it is not already apparent, turbines are syndromous; turbines are absolutely deadly, and it is not only because of the solid poison. There are many facets to these dangerous constructs hiding so complacently in plain sight. And the gray-eyed man behind you, his highbeams, life itself, for that matter; these things all prevent you from ever, ever noticing the turbine. The same turbine you pass every day on your way home from activities. No wonder you go home sick every day.  No wonder the gray-eyed man has to use the restroom.

It is my sole duty for the foreseeable future to disseminate information on the harmful qualities of turbines. I have been assigned this task by a higher power and it brings me no pleasure. There are advantages to the existence of turbines, but few have the skills or resources to utilize these advantages. The best way to live with turbines is to avoid them as often as possible and risk only mild forms of cancer and conditions, or to destroy them all together. Please join me as I document the terrors of this technology until my task is deemed complete.