Arruckus -- men call it Doon, the Dessert Planet. it is a sugar-covered wasteland entirely devoid of entrees, patrolled by a terrifying species of giant pretzel.
This savage world is the setting for an apocalyptic drama. On the one side is the evil Baron Vladimir Hardchargin -- ruthless, voracious, extremely fat. opposing him: young Pall Agamemnides, the teenager who may (or may not) be the Messiah. Pall's only allies are the planet's nomadic tribes, the fiercely religious, sweatsuit-wearing Freedmenmen.
These forces clash in a deadly contest over Doon's one precious resource, a substance found nowhere else in the Universe: the mind-altering liquid known as beer...
-- The flyleaf to the
National Lampoon's Doon, by
Ellis Weiner, a
parody of
Frank Herbert's operatic
science fiction novel
Dune. It is a brilliantly sustained parody, on the basic premise that where Dune is a planet of
sand, Doon is
sugar. The
spice-sinks that the sandworm
Shai-hulud turns into
melange, on Dune, are on Doon salted
peanuts that the giant pretzel
Schmai-gunug transforms. The people of the desert ride the pretzels. They drink the sacred substance
beer and gain like, yeah, hey great, really
cool insights. The
Fremen's eyes are pure blue on blue. The Freedmenmen's are pure red on red.
The whole mythos is based on food, drink, and catering. The Schlepping Guild have a total monopoly on space travel: they drink lots of beer and say "good buddy". The secretive order of women, the Boni Maroni, are cooks. The lady Jazzica disables opponents with her whining Cook-Voice: "Get out of the kitchen. It'll be ready when it's ready". Young Pall may be the Messiah of the order, the fabled Kumkwat Haagendasz. The Great Big Houses of the Imperium are rivals who operate hotels and casinos on their planets.
There are quotes scattered throughout from sacred writings such as "The Notebooks of Mauve'Bib -- Outtakes, Bloopers, and Unconvincing Maxims" by the Princess Serutan.
They fly in orthodontothopters, intricate advanced technology held together with rubber bands. The Freedmenmen's sacred implement is a swysknife, which has all sorts of blades and things for opening beer cans with. The language is a closely-observed parody of Frank Herbert's portentous style:
Lotto looked at this adviser. The meaning of the tactic was clear. 'So,' he said. Halfwit nodded. 'Then...'
The Mantan nodded again, moved slowly into the room, his aged face creased in calculation, his fingertips pressed in concentration. 'Perhaps...?'
'No, Safire, we daren't,' Lotto said.
'But the Baron will--'
'What the Baron will, I may,' Lotto said firmly, striking the desk with his fist. 'What I will, the Baron may or may not -- depending on whether I do.'
'And if,' Halfwit added.
Lotto paused, stunned by this last remark. Treachery? From Safire? Impossible. 'What do you mean, Safire?'
The Mantan frowned. 'My Lord -- what do you mean, what do I mean?'