It's the biggest sausage fest on the planet.

There is no penury of penis in The Icelandic Phallogogical Musuem. It’s the biggest sausage fest on the planet, the only museum of its kind in the world and there are more penises than you ever planned/hoped/wanted to see. The blog post, like the dick jokes, write themselves. Giraffe pecker next to elephant cock, near goat member, next to whale package and horse shaft. In jars of formaldehyde you can finally answer the burning question of what donkey dong and whale wang look like. There are puds carved out of wood and pictures of scholongs adorning the walls.

If you ever need to insult someone, tell them they have a hamster love missile, because you need a magnifying glass to see it.

It all leads to two questions: Why and WTF?

Blame the school teacher Sigurður Hjartarson who after he retired in 1997 decided the world needed a museum dedicated to the male member. He’s had an interest in penises since his youthful days when he was given a cattle whip made from a bull penis. 60% of people who visit the museum are women. Go figure . . .

The museum’s mission statement says the museum is for “individuals to undertake serious study into the field of phallology in an organized, scientific fashion.” But based on the ironic grins worn by the patrons I saw, it seems most people took the entire affair as a massive dick joke. It fits though into the wonderfully quirky contradiction that is Icelandic culture. They are a people who revel in smiles, can tell a joke, and as we learned last night are quick to share their snuff with you.

“We have a saying in Iceland,” one newfound friend of last night said maybe a dozen times, “Let’s get drunk.” It all leads to a massive hangover.

So here’s a recommendation: avoid going to the museum when your hang over is causing you to hang on by a thread. When I saw the human penis in a jar of formaldehyde, I had to sit down. It was a lot to take in. Avoid the inevitable awkward eye contact with strangers, eyes that awkwardly say, “We came to see the penises as well.”

If you find yourself in Reykjavik, the penis museum is an inevitability you will have to face. I don’t plan to tell my parents that I wrote them their post card depicting the Hallgrímskirkja Lutheran church while in the company of 280 penises from 93 different species.

The penis museum has left with one burning hope, that perhaps you, intrepid reader can carry out. Someone needs to open a competing vagina museum across the street and carry out a war to win over each other’s patrons. Oh please, someone, anyone, do this.

 

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