A tiny fishing town in Iceland has a special institution called the Phallological Museum.

If you paid attention in English class (in between under-the-desk handjobs) you'll know that the suffix “logical” means “relating to the subject of” while “phallo” means…well…dick.

The Phallological Museum, nestled deep and tight (see what I did there?) in a community known for its oceanic whale population, is home to 276 penile and testicular preservations from sperm whales, walruses, large bovines and bears.

But curator Sigurdur Hjartarson was missing something. Despite countless pledges, he couldn't seem to land a human schlong to add to the museum's collection of jarred, stretched, decorated and sculpted mammal wangs.

Until now.

Local Icelander Pall Arason died a few months ago at the age of 95 and before his body went into rigor mortis mode his penis was carefully removed and immediately submerged in a beaker of formaldehyde with careful instructions from the former living being.

That's what she said.

That's what she said.

Arason asked that his member be donated to the Phallological Museum and his wishes were fulfilled – complete with an installation ceremony in honor of the former tourism worker who, according to Hjartarson, had a less-than-timid personality.

“He liked to be in the limelight, you know? He was a funny guy,” he told the Associated Press. “He was a boaster, a braggart. He liked to be provocative.”

Now Arason and the rest of the museum's dangly parts will be on view for the thousands of visitors it draws every summer.

But more curious: why the hell does Hjartarson (who's 69 years old, funny enough) have such an obsession with all things formerly erect?

He says it started when, as a kid, he used a whip made of a bull's penis to herd cattle. Then the dick jokes started while he worked at a whaling station and friends sent whale penises as thoughtful gifts.

And 15 years ago, with a total of 62 specimens under his belt, he opened the museum.

Never before have I felt this inclined to visit Iceland. At least not since I tamed my Bjork obsession crush. (Thanks for those pills, Doc.)

Advertising disclosure: We may receive compensation for some of the links in our stories. Thank you for supporting LA Weekly and our advertisers.