MR. KABOOM

Good evening, folks. My name is Ross, and I’m here to talk about the day I declared war on a gopher… and lost.

Now, before we begin, let me say: I’m not a violent man. I’m a teacher. I’ve spent thirty‑three years wrangling eighth‑graders. If I were violent, I’d be in prison, not here with you fine people.

But gardening? Gardening brought out something dark in me.  I moonlighted as a gardener. Plants were far more peaceful than teenagers. They never talked back.

By the third year of my lawn-care side hustle, I had grown confident with mowing, trimming, and landscaping.

Then I met it—the unholy terror of turf—the subterranean saboteur.

The gopher.

This furry little menace. This tiny, dirt‑flinging homewrecker. He tunneled through yards like he was auditioning for “The Great Escape.”  

Every time I filled a hole, he opened another. I swear he was doing it to mess with me. I’d fill one hole, turn around, and he’d pop up somewhere else like, “Hey buddy, nice try.”

At my wits’ end, I went to my brother, the farmer. Farmers know things. Dangerous things.

He handed me this slick, aluminum bottle with a warning label that basically said, “If you misuse this, the fire department will learn your name.”

Inside were gray pellets, like Cocoa Puffs cereal, but trust me, these were not part of a balanced diet. Still, they looked harmless. I mean, what harm could a morning cereal do?

And my brother, the farmer, says, “Ross… one or two pellets. ONE! OR. TWO!”

Cover it. Water the area just enough to activate the gas. And whatever you do, do not overdo it. One or two. That’s it.

Now, I’m a grown man. I’ve raised kids. I’ve coached sports. I’ve survived parent‑teacher conferences. But apparently, I cannot follow directions.

Because the moment he said “one or two,” my brain went, “What if I used… 3, 4, a handful?”

Ground zero. The Carvalho lawn.

Carefully, I pour in enough pellets to qualify as a controlled demolition. I water it like I’m trying to put out a fire. And I walk away feeling like a hero. My problems are over. Gopher gone.

Next morning, I’m in the teacher’s lounge when my aide bursts in like she’s witnessed a crime and is afraid to talk.

“Ross… did you plant a bomb in the Carvalho yard?”

And I’m thinking, “Well… not intentionally.”

Turns out, around 7 p.m., the neighborhood experienced what scientists call “a significant event.”

The lawn exploded—a plume of white smoke shot into the sky. The dog ran under the couch and to this day refuses to let his paws touch grass.  Mr. Carvalho came outside with a shotgun, ready to defend his property from… me, apparently.

The fire department shows up, finds a crater where the gopher hole used to be, and absolutely no gopher. No fur. No tail. No forwarding address. That little dude either ascended or relocated.

And because my town is small, by sunrise the next day, I had a new nickname.

Mr. Kaboom. Mr. K for simplicity.

Not “Ross.” Not “Coach.” Not “Mr. Sánchez.” No. Mr. Kaboom.

I didn’t tell my brother, the farmer, for years. When I finally did, he didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. He just shook his head and said:

“The gopher still won.”

“And I believe he is right.”