In response to a recent posting about Ferdinand Feghoot on Dune, Pun Mistress Scarlett Herzele immediately wrote the following. I am getting so jealous.

Ferdinand Feghoot, having swayed the wise man, with his wit (probably more like, slayed) ventured further into the desert. Large sand worms, notwithstanding, he persevered, seeking wisdom from the lost knight of the Round Table. He was not yet through with history. The War of the Roses did not sit quite right with him. He finally tracked down said knight, after many years of searching and, of course, drinking; for, how else could he gain the confidence of the people, than to share beer, grog and/or (usually and) wine with them. After many years of wandering in the desert, dodging the worms, careful not to consume too much of the melange (a spicy tale this is), he returned to share what he had learned with Paul Atredes; that he, P.A. was the true, original father of all the Tudors and Scots. (Just imagine!) But as he reached the site, he was attacked by a swarm of wasps.

There, having been repeatedly stung by wasps, and stricken with liver disease, he cried, “Mud’ Daub! Cirrhosis, cirrhosis, Sir Rose.