You ever live next to someone who just gets under your skin?
It’s not that they do anything truly outrageous—no blaring music at 2 a.m., no wild parties—but there’s something about them that just irritates you to your core?
Maybe it’s the way they’re always a little too cheerful, like life just rolls in their favor.
Or maybe it’s their kids, always running around, laughing a little too loudly, disturbing the peace that you’ve worked hard to maintain.
That’s how it was for me with the Johnsons.
Maybe I’m the bad guy, but my plan for revenge didn’t seem too wrong…
They moved in about six months ago.
At first, I thought they’d be decent neighbors—kept their lawn tidy, waved hello in the mornings, that sort of thing.
But it didn’t take long before their little quirks started to grate on me.
Their dog, a big golden retriever, would bark now and then, nothing major, but annoying enough.
The kids? Oh, they were the worst.
Always chasing after each other, playing with a ball that somehow always ended up too close to my garden gnomes, knocking them over. They’d apologize, of course, but it was the kind of apology you give when you don’t really care.
The worst part? Their vegetable garden.
You see, I take pride in my lawn—pristine, perfectly striped with my trusty mower, no weeds in sight.
But the Johnsons?
They had this little backyard garden that seemed to be thriving no matter what they did. Bright green leaves, plump tomatoes, you name it.
People in the neighborhood couldn’t stop talking about how charming it all was.
They’d drop off zucchini to old Mrs. Fischer across the street, share their peppers with the Miller family, and everyone would gush about what a lovely addition they were to the community.
Meanwhile, I was watching this circus unfold from my porch, feeling more and more like the odd man out.
It wasn’t until the ball knocked over my favorite gnome for the third time that I decided enough was enough.
It was petty, I knew that…but I was going to show them that they weren’t so perfect after all.
Plan of Retaliation
The moment that gnome hit the ground, I felt a simmering rage I hadn’t known I was capable of. Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m not the kind of guy who starts shouting at kids or makes a scene.
No, I like to handle things quietly, under the radar.
A small, well-placed act of revenge, something that’ll gnaw at you without being obvious. I learned that from years of dealing with annoying neighbors.
So there I was, standing in my yard, staring at my poor ceramic gnome lying facedown in the grass while the Johnson kids scurried back to their yard. They didn’t even look back, just yelled a half-hearted “Sorry, Mister Tom!” over their shoulders as they ran off.
That was the moment it clicked—I wasn’t going to let them get away with this anymore.
But what to do?
Sure, I could’ve confronted their parents. Had a stern word, maybe complained about their dog too.
But that wasn’t satisfying enough. No, I wanted something that’d make them feel it.
And then I glanced at their garden.
It was almost sickening how lush and green it was, rows of tomatoes already ripening on the vine. You’d think they were professional gardeners or something.
And that’s when it hit me—I’d go after their garden.
Not in any obvious way, of course. I wasn’t about to go stomping through their backyard in the middle of the night.
No, this needed to be subtle, something that wouldn’t immediately point back to me.
I drove to the hardware store that evening and picked up a bottle of some garden-safe chemical.
It wasn’t anything dangerous—just a little something that would mess with their tomatoes, make the leaves curl up or the fruit ripen unevenly. Something to throw a wrench in their perfect little routine.
They’d never know what hit them.
That night, when I was sure the Johnsons had gone to bed, I snuck into their yard. It was easy—no fence, no security cameras, just the cover of darkness and a little bit of caution.
I sprayed a light mist over the tomatoes, making sure not to overdo it. Just enough to cause some confusion, to make them question their precious gardening skills.
I felt a surge of satisfaction as I crept back to my house, imagining their confused faces when their perfect plants started to falter.
Miscalculating the Produce
The next few days were agonizingly slow.
Every morning, I’d peer out my kitchen window, waiting for signs of disaster and plant death in the Johnsons’ garden.
I expected to see drooping vines, yellowed leaves, anything that showed my little plan was working. But to my frustration, everything looked as healthy as ever.
The tomatoes kept growing, fat and shiny under the summer sun, as if mocking me from across the yard.
To make matters worse, the Johnsons were their usual chipper selves, oblivious to my efforts.
I watched as they worked in their garden, watering the plants and chatting with each other. They seemed happier than ever, which only made my irritation grow.
Then, one Saturday morning, I noticed something different.
A small gathering had formed in front of their house. A few neighbors had stopped by, and they were chatting with the Johnsons, admiring their garden.
I saw Mrs. Fischer, her white hair bobbing as she nodded enthusiastically, and the Millers, both grinning as they accepted a small basket of tomatoes from Mrs. Johnson. My stomach churned with frustration.
I couldn’t stand it any longer.
I walked over, pretending to be interested in the commotion, but really, I just wanted to see the damage for myself. Maybe I’d hear them mention some strange problem with their plants.
But no. As I approached, I heard the Johnsons talking about their tomatoes with pride.
“Can you believe how big they’ve grown this year?” Mr. Johnson was saying. “We weren’t sure about the new fertilizer we tried, but it’s worked wonders. We’ve never had tomatoes this healthy before!”
I stopped in my tracks.
“Fertilizer? What fertilizer?” Then it hit me like a brick to the face—the spray. The damn spray I’d used wasn’t some plant killer.
It must’ve been some kind of leaf feeder or something, the kind that helps plants grow. I had accidentally made their tomatoes thrive, and now they were basking in the glory of their best crop yet.
I stood there, dumbfounded, as the neighbors fawned over the Johnson’s garden.
My plan had backfired spectacularly, and I had no one to blame but myself.
A Perfect Failure
After my humiliating failure with the garden sabotage, I tried to let it go.
I figured, fine, the Johnsons got a bumper crop of tomatoes thanks to my blunder, but at least I still had my pride—my perfect lawn.
If there was one thing I could control, it was the grass under my feet. Perfectly cut, immaculately green, no weeds, no imperfections.
The neighborhood might swoon over the Johnsons’ garden, but they’d always marvel at my lawn.
Or so I thought.
One evening, just as I was finishing up mowing, I noticed something strange.
A series of small mounds of dirt dotted along one edge of my lawn, ruining the smooth, pristine surface. At first, I thought it was just some stray dirt from the wind or a small mess from the kids playing, but when I knelt down for a closer look, I saw the telltale signs of tunnels. Moles.
Moles! My worst nightmare.
I spent the next few days battling those little pests. Traps, repellents, even staying up late trying to catch them in the act.
But it was no use—each morning, more mounds would appear. My perfectly striped lawn, the one thing I took pride in, was quickly turning into a minefield.
No matter what I tried, the moles won.
And the more they tore up my grass, the more I realized that I was losing the one thing that made me feel superior to the Johnsons.
By the end of the week, I was at my wit’s end.
The final blow came on a Saturday morning, when I overheard some neighbors chatting about my lawn, but not in the usual admiring way.
They were gossiping, whispering about how it “used to be the best on the block,” and how I’d “really let it go.”
Meanwhile, the Johnsons’ garden continued to flourish, their tomatoes plump and ripe, their yard alive with laughter and neighbors stopping by for produce.
It was as if the universe was laughing at me. I had tried to take them down, and now I was the one stuck with a ruined yard and a bruised ego.
Humble Pie, Made With Tomatoes
I was out there that morning, crouching by yet another molehill, trying to patch up the latest damage, when I heard a voice behind me.
“Hey Tom, rough luck with the lawn, huh?” It was Mr. Johnson, standing at the edge of my yard with that ever-present smile on his face.
I stood up, already bracing myself for some thinly veiled comment about my yard’s downfall.
But instead, he held out a basket. Inside was a generous helping of tomatoes—big, red, and undeniably beautiful.
“Thought you might like some of these,” he said. “We’ve had such a great crop this year, we’ve been giving them away to everyone. And hey, if you need some help with the lawn, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. We had a mole problem back at our old place too.”
I stared at him, feeling a rush of conflicting emotions.
He had no idea, no clue that I had been the one trying to sabotage his garden.
Yet here he was, offering me the very thing I had tried to ruin.
And to top it all off, he was even offering to help with my lawn—the one thing I had prided myself on more than anything.
I could’ve said no. I could’ve let my pride get the better of me, brushed him off, and doubled down on my efforts to fix things on my own.
But something about the irony of it all hit me in that moment.
I’d been petty and childish, and for what? A few tomatoes?
I looked down at the basket in his hands, the fruit of my failed sabotage, and realized that my obsession with my lawn, with being “better” than the Johnsons, had made me blind to how ridiculous I’d been acting.
“Thanks,” I finally muttered, taking the basket from him. “I… appreciate it.”
“No problem,” he said, still smiling. “We all run into rough patches now and then. If you need any advice on how to deal with those moles, just let me know. I’m happy to help.”
As he turned to walk back to his yard, I stood there for a moment, holding the basket of tomatoes and feeling a strange mix of shame and relief.
Maybe—just maybe—it was time to stop being the grumpy neighbor who saw every little annoyance as a personal attack.
Later that day, I took one of those tomatoes and made myself a sandwich.
It was delicious.