The Mean Streets of Ontario’s Public Parks

As a young child, I accompanied my parents, Loki and Midgaard, on family camping trips to campgrounds. It was a happy time, and I have many memories. But the Ontario Parks system is no longer the inexpensive vacation paradise it once was …

Innocent and completely lacking in guile, I arrived for a pleasant weekend of camping. The smile was wiped off my face when I saw the first so-called parks worker: a three hundred pound monster staggering along the dusty gravel road, drinking from the neck of a bottle of tequila. He stopped abruptly, then tipped over and collapsed on the ground in a cloud of gravel dust. Shocking. People just stepped over his twitching drunken carcass.

Beside my campsite was a gambling den. The entire park was a symphony of global warming as evil heteronormatives murdered trees and brunt them. The park store did not sell vegetarian foods, but instead a disturbing selection of earth destroying meats, firewoods, sugar products, and second hand smoke generating tobacco products.

Screams in the night I cowered in my tent, curled up into the fetal position. The screaming went on and on. Nobody seemed to care. The inmates of the neighboring campsite just opened another round of rotgut and played poker. Long gone are the days of family recreation at Ontario Provincial Parks. Now the park system is firmly in the hands of degenerate heteronormative gangs bent on slaking their primitive lusts.

Sex at the Comfort Station The whole camping experience was making me feel dirty, and I sought refuge in the thought of a nice shower. Horrors! Unlike the wholesome and character building bath houses in Toronto’s gay tourism centers, these shower places are hunting grounds for hungry heteronormatives, looking for a snack. The first stall I opened contained a leering cougar, naked, who pointed at features on her naked body and suggested that we get clean together. The second stall contained a copulating couple. By then I got the picture. I looked at the suggestive leers on the faces of the people waiting for a a free stall, or more likely the human flesh tidbit that suited their fancy. Far from being a place to get a shower in a mosquito infested place, the comfort station was a rendez-vous spot to slake heteronormative lusts. I shuddered and found an empty stall and locked the door. I did not scream when I heard nails scratching at the door several times as I attempted, with shaking hands and a weak heart, to brush my teeth and towel my hair.

Not once did I see a homosexual couple walking hand in hand through the woods. No transvestites swam in the lake. Not a single homeless person asked me for beer money. There was no gang graffiti. This was not the city of light, Toronto.

The Ontario Parks System has fallen.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this, drenched in tears.