See, Feyd's problem was that he skipped breckie. Bad form, and when your blood sugar gets low, you know -- hangry! Just one of those little melange bars stuck in his backpack would have saved all sorts of grief. Oh, and an untimely death. Just sayin'!

National Lampoon did parodies of both The Lord of the Rings and Dune back in the day. Both were good, but Doon was head-and-shoulders better, mostly because Frank Herbert's writing style is so incredibly distinctive that it practically begs for parody. Here's one of my favorite excerpts:

This realization focused within him in a sudden sparkflash computation, and in the clear brilliance of that illumination, the boy Pall understood a profoundness. His life, hitherto a child's plaything, devoid of direction—seemingly! Or had there in fact always been a plan—a plan within a plan within a plan (whatever that meant (whatever that meant (whatever that meant)))?—was now encompassed by a terrible purpose. He knew the meaning of the word terrible, and he knew the meaning of the word purpose. And therefore he understood deeply the meaning of "terrible purpose." Unless he, in the solitude of his deeply brain-filled mind, misunderstood this revelation, and was in fact confronted with a "terrible papoose."

What could that mean?
 
No, it was purpose—and he knew what it meant. Likewise did he know, with resonant clarity and un-dimmed thunderclapping immensity, that his terrible purpose would guide him, will-he nill-he, across time and space itself, practically everywhere. And that purpose knelled the mind of the boy Pall in an echo of the words he had shared with the Revved-Up Mother George Cynthia Mohairem, and with his mother the Lady Jazzica, and with himself.
 
There's no way out of it, he thought. I've got to get a job.