DUNG/DUNE OUT TAKES

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Douchebag Messiah
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These are bits that didn't make it into the real book but which are fun to read.
For me anyway they are a big laugh. Ha Ha.

Perhaps nothing more clearly shows the Whachacalladat’s (Frank Herbert's) want of basic literacy skills as the following submission that he made to Desert House Publishers when I was Editor-In-Chief. To elucidate the monumental task that editors face when compelled to publish the work of substandard authors, I am including his entire submission here along with all of my footnoted edits.

There is in all things a pattern that is a part of our universe.1 It has symmetry2 and grace3 those qualities in that which4 the true artist5 captures. You can find it in the turning of the seasons6 in the way the sand trails along a ridge7 in the branch clusters8 of the creosote bush or the pattern 9 of its10 leaves. We11 try to copy these patterns12 in our lives and society, seeking the rhythms, the dance the forms that comfort.13 Yet it is possible to see peril14  in the finding of ultimate perfection15 It is clear that the ultimate16 pattern17 contains its own fixity18 In such perfection, all things move toward death.19
1. Anything you can perceive is “a part of the universe.” Delete.
2. As most patterns do! Choose another word.
3. "Grace" is a kind of icky, sugar-coated preacher man’s filler word bereft of any real meaning. Try something else.
4. “In that which?” How about in what which or in which witch? Come on, author!
5. What artist? Where? Who? Is it Van Gogh or someone? Where did this artist come from? What are you talking about?
6. Sounding kind of Japanese here. Worried you’ll start writing about cherry blossoms and bamboo. Dung has only two seasons: summer and more summer. We publish regional publications here at Desert House so stay regional!
7. Need a verb here for “sand trails.” I mean, what do these sand trails actually do along a ridge?
8. Need a verb for these “branch clusters” as well and perhaps a definition of just what they are.
9. Repeating the word “pattern” here.
10. Congrats this time on writing “its” instead of “it’s!”
11. We? This second person inclusiveness is artificial. Readers don’t like inclusion because they are assumed to agree with the writer when they may not.
12. “Patterns” again!
13. “Seeking the rhythms, the dance the forms that comfort?” Oh, barf! We? Not I mister! See why the reader doesn’t want to be included?
14. Out of the clear blue you write, peril? What peril? And why so gloomy all of a sudden?
15. I thought all this hair splitting was about patterns—now it’s suddenly “ultimate perfection?” And how is finding perfection perilous in the first place? Doesn’t make a lot of sense!
16. “Ultimate?” You JUST used this word! Thesaurus! PS How can one try to "copy" "these patterns" or worse; how does one "copy" "ultimate perfection?"
17.
"Pattern" for the FOURTH time in only seven sentences! Four out of seven, more than half of them: 57.14 percent!
18. Fixity? You must be kidding? Fixodent
© is also a word, but that doesn’t mean it would make sense here either!

19. Getting gloomy again!

AND HERE IS THE FIRST DRAFT OF "The Tin Ear Hymn" which is a parody of (and yet still an IMPROVEMENT over) Herbert's ridiculous poem:

  This Fremen religion like all religions, then, is the source of what we now recognize as "The Nauseouness of the Universe," whose Quickie Taffy Verses are among us all with signs and prophecy. They bring us the Ascarisian mystical fusion restaurants whose profound tastiness is typified by walrus souffle, Swedish meatballs with cilantro and and ranch style schnitzel stamped with the words “Not Intended for Human Consumption.” Who has not heard and been moved ( and deeply so) by "The Tin Ear Hymn?"

I drove my geese through a desert
Whose goslings whinnied like drunken horses
Voracious for voracity and greedy for greed.
I traipsed the inanity of Fosterian verse
I saw erosion level both hillocks, dells, and my intellect
In its quest, its ravenousness to brunch on my entrails
And I saw the canaries furiously flapping hither
Big, bold canaries like charging hippopotamuses
That spread unctuousness
Upon the briar patch of my budding literacy
I felt the hippos lightly roosting
On my young green shoots
And their tiny, scratchy feet tickling my thighs!