Dear Icelandic Phallological Museum,
While I am no stranger to the pleasures of gawking awkwardly at the male member, I must say: what the fuck? Do we really need an entire museum full of dicks? I mean, I got your dick museum right here, Iceland. It’s called online dating.
But I’ll play along with your phallological shtick (or shall I say “rod”). I’m a bit intrigued by your founder, who seems to have stumbled into the field of phallology. (You know, he just fell into hundreds of dicks “by accident.”) According to your website, the museum’s founder began his collection after being given a pizzle and a few whale penises as a joke. I totally understand this progression. One minute some guy gives you a whale penis, the next you’re the proud owner of a dick museum. Seen it a million times. Even the most innocent interest in male genitalia is a downward spiral. Just a few years ago, a man came up to me with some fried bull testicles. Come on, he said, just take a little taste. Don’t be a pussy. After a few weeks, I’d lost my job, my friends, my home. I spent my afternoons huddled outside of the local Spay and Neuter Clinic hoping for a payload. Come on, Doc, Momma needs some Rottweiler balls! I shudder at the memory. At least your founder was able to channel his genital addiction into a positive avenue with so many social benefits. As you note on the website, “it is finally possible for individuals to undertake serious study into the field of phallology in an organized, scientific fashion. “ Phew! Finally! For a moment there, I thought I’d have to keep doing all of my serious study on Pornhub.
In addition to an extensive exhibition of male genitalia, the museum also displays “about 350 artistic oddments and practical utensils related to the museum ́s chosen theme.” Practical penis utensils? Like, Martha Stewart’s “Genital Inspirations” line of cookware? I mean, every time I plan a fancy dinner party, I’m always sure to set out the Dick Sporks and Semen Ladles. Or perhaps you are referencing such pieces as the “Trey [sic?] for Schnapps,” which is featured proudly on your website. While the tray’s penis-shaped handle is quite impressive, I find the entire piece a bit clichéd. I mean, Schnapps and cocks? Come on, Iceland, that was so last weekend.
The real reason for my letter, however, is to ask the most obvious question: where all the vulvas at? For a country with one of the smallest gender gaps, something seems suspect. Where’s the bronze cast of Susan B. Anthony’s vagina, which doubles as a ballot box? Where’s the giant Vagina Maze for children, which incorporates a really awesome slide and a mediocre ball pit (Look, Mom, I’m balls deep!)? And where in the hell is the Megan Trainor song about body image issues? I understand the logistics of obtaining vaginal specimens is a bit more extensive than lopping off a dick, but amazing things are being done with rubber and silicone. For $29.95, you can purchase Clone-a-Pussy, which will mold to the shape of vaginas big and small (as seen on Jersey Shore, another global authority on dicks and dickheads). I can personally attest to the accuracy of these molds. A few weeks before Christmas, my friends and I made a drunken pact to exchange molds of our vaginas in lieu of presents. Not only did I mold my vagina for my friends, but I had the genius idea to cast ceramic bowls from that mold. Well, Christmas came, and my “friends” just gave me a bunch of bullshit presents like Amazon gift cards and chocolates and shit. No rubber vaginas to be had, which made me feel all self-conscious, so I had to pretend like I didn’t get them anything for the holiday. I probably seemed like an asshole, but sometimes you’ve just got to say, “Aw, man, I totally forgot it was Christmas,” instead of saying “Aw, man, I got you this awesome bowl in the shape of my inverted vagina so you can feel awkward while eating hummus. Get the extra garlic kind. It’ll be just like real life.” My disappointing Christmas experience aside, these vagina molds could be just what your museum needs to close the blatant gender disparity. You could display molds from hundreds of mammals—rats and jaguars and giraffes. You could make a riveting documentary about molding a jaguar’s vagina. Maybe one of your cameramen will die tragically during the jaguar’s struggle. Maybe this tragic death will make for great cinema. Maybe you’ll win an award at Sundance, and countless visitors will flock to your museum. The opportunities are endless. The way I see it, you’re only achieving half of your genital potential. Think outside the box. Or, in this case, think inside the banana box.
If a room filled with silicone vaginas seems too much for your phallological tastes, at least consider allowing women a Breast and Teat Wing. Think of the possibilities there. The mammoth milk gland of a sperm whale. The little nubbins of Capuchin monkeys. A Conduct-Your-Own-Mammogram Exhibit. And there’s commercial potential, as well. Chocolate milk. Rocky Road ice cream. Cappuccinos served in dick-shaped glasses. You can even create your own lingo like any quality, modern-day coffee house. I’ll take a double-shot Ron Jeremy Latte with extra Bukkake. It’s just like ordering a drink at Starbucks: I’m not sure exactly what it means, but it sounds delicious.
While I’m hopeful that you will incorporate more female-inspired exhibits in your penis museum, I also have a premonition that you will continue to ignore society’s better half. I can already imagine how my proposed Breast and Teat Wing will progress with your board of trustees. After a “budget evaluation,” the Breast and Teat Wing will be renamed the Breast Wing, which will be renamed Hooters, which will offer “Women’s Wednesday: All You Can Eat Roast Beef! (Men Eat Free!).” At the very least, please serve the beef in those fancy vagina bowls I made for my lame friends. That way, every bloated customer will be forced to navigate labial folds and clitoral hoods whilst cutting through the medium-rare delights. And when they sop up the bloody remains of beef, their buttery rolls will reveal the ceramic wink of my whispering eye. Come on, Iceland. It’s the least you can do for women’s lib.