9:00 AM – The Buzzword Strategist’s Morning Monologue

I have barely sipped my first cup of coffee when our daily stand-up meeting begins. In strolls Dave from Strategy – the resident Buzzword Strategist (formerly known as Bob the Bullshit Artist) – eyes gleaming with confidence and PowerPoint polish. Dave clears his throat and launches into his morning monologue of pure jargon. In the span of thirty seconds, he manages to proclaim that we must “leverage our synergies,” “drive a paradigm shift,” and “optimize cross-functional alignment moving forward.” Each phrase lands with the grace of a lead balloon.

I glance around the conference table (and at the grid of faces on Zoom) to see if anyone else is deciphering this nonsense. Nope. My colleagues nod along as if Dave is revealing the meaning of life, while I’m internally translating Buzzwordeseto English. Synergies? We barely talk to the other departments. Paradigm shift? We’re just updating a spreadsheet, not reinventing physics. Dave continues unabated, tossing out buzzwords like he’s paid by the syllable. In one breath, he spews out a barrage of classics:

• “Low-hanging fruit” – (Translation: easy tasks we’ll still somehow never get to.)
• “Bandwidth” – (Translation: time, which none of us have because we’re stuck in meetings like this.)
• “Circle back” – (Translation: postpone doing anything, in hopes someone else will do it.)
• “At the end of the day” – (Translation: eventually, maybe never, but let’s pretend.)
• “Holistic approach” – (Translation: I have no idea what I’m talking about, so I’ll just say it’s big.)

By the time Dave is wrapping up with a flourish about “streamlining our strategic visionary objectives,” I’ve filled half a page in my notebook playing Corporate Buzzword Bingo. (I silently congratulate myself for hitting bingo before he even takes a breath.) Of course, nothing actionable comes out of this meeting. We just spent 30 minutes nodding at empty phrases. My coffee is cold, my patience is lukewarm, and I have a sneaking suspicion Dave himself couldn’t explain what half of his words actually mean. I leave the meeting with exactly two takeaways: I need a fresh coffee, and the Buzzword Strategist has once again managed to say a lot of nothing.

10:30 AM – Inbox Ambush by the Passive-Aggressive Emailer

Caffeinated and back at my desk, I open my inbox to find a new email chain that practically vibrates with irritation. The sender is Paula, our Passive-Aggressive Emailer extraordinaire, and the subject line reads: “RE: RE: Follow-Up – Urgent.” With a deep breath, I click it open. As expected, it’s a masterclass in thinly veiled hostility:

• “Per my last email, I’m still waiting on the data for the report.”
• “Just circling back to see if you had a chance to review my previous message.”
• “As mentioned before, time is of the essence on this deliverable.”

Each line feels like a polite punch to the gut, delivered with a smiley face. Paula has, of course, CC’d our manager—just to make sure I feel the public shaming. I rub my temples. Yes, I saw her last email — the one she sent at 11:00 PM yesterday. Apparently, in Paula’s world, failing to reply within eight sleeping hours warrants a follow-up that escalates from gentle reminder to pointed rebuke.

I draft a response, summoning every ounce of saintly professionalism despite the annoyance boiling in my veins:

Hi Paula,
Thanks for the reminder. I was actually compiling the data and planned to send it by noon today. Since we hadn’t set an official deadline, I appreciate your patience while I finalize the report. Let me know if there’s anything urgent I missed — happy to discuss further on a call.

I re-read my email twice to ensure the subtext reads “Calm down, I got this” without actually saying it. Satisfied that I’ve struck the right balance of courteous and I-will-not-be-bullied, I hit send. Moments later, a reply from Paula pops up. It’s a one-liner: “Noted, thanks.” I can practically hear the frosty undertone through the screen. She’s clearly miffed I didn’t drop everything sooner or grovel for forgiveness. I shake my head and take another sip of coffee. One fire contained, for now. It’s not even lunchtime, and my inbox has already become a battlefield of weaponized politeness.

11:00 AM – The Over-Delegator Does Absolutely Nothing

Just as I try to get actual work done (imagine that!), a wild Over-Delegator appears. This time it’s Dave from Sales — Dave #2 for the day — with a talent for doing absolutely none of his own work. He pings me on Slack with an overly cheerful, “Hey, got a sec?” before I can even respond, he’s calling my phone. I reluctantly pick up, and he launches in:

“Listen, I’ve got this important client proposal that needs to go out EOD,” Dave from Sales says, feigning an apologetic tone. “I’m swamped following up with some leads, so could you take a first stab at it for me? You’re so good at these things, I trust your expertise completely. I’ll owe you one!”

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. This is classic Over-Delegator maneuvering: compliment me, act like he’s overwhelmed, then slide his work onto my plate. The “I’ll owe you one” is the cherry on top — we both know that’s never happening. Last time Dave “owed me one,” he paid me back by volunteering me to present his slides to the VP.

Before I can protest, he barrels on: “Oh, and could you also loop in the numbers from that market analysis? I think you have them handy. Thanks, you’re the best!” He hangs up almost before I agree. I stare at my phone in disbelief. Did I just… accept his work? Yep, I somehow did. Dave has a black-belt in delegation jiu-jitsu — I didn’t even feel the handoff until it was too late.

Now I’ve got my work and Dave’s work to finish by end of day. I mutter a few choice words under my breath and add the proposal to my ever-growing to-do list. The Over-Delegator strolls off to an early lunch, no doubt to tell someone how busy he is. Meanwhile, I’m left doing two jobs and wondering if “Assistant to Dave” is now in my job description.

11:45 AM – The Marketing Dickhead’s Branding Emergency

Late morning and I’m knee-deep in that client proposal (thanks, Dave), when I get pulled into an “urgent” call about our upcoming product launch. On the line is Dave from Marketing — yes, another Dave (I’m apparently collecting them today) — our resident Marketing Dickhead who believes branding minutiae is the only real work. He kicks off the call with palpable urgency in his voice:

“Team, we have a branding emergency,” Marketing Dave declares. My heart skips a beat — is there a scandal? A product defect? No such luck. “The logo on page 3 of the deck is the old version,” he continues gravely, “and the shade of blue in the header is off-brand.” I wait for more, but that’s it. That’s the emergency.

For the next 15 minutes, Dave obsessively focuses on these trivial details as if they are matters of life and death. He has us all scroll through a 50-slide presentation to ensure every logo is precisely the approved Pantone shade. When a teammate gently suggests we should also confirm the product pricing and availability (you know, substantive things), Marketing Dave brushes it off: “We’ll handle that later; right now we need to get these visuals on point. Consistency is key!”

I glance at the clock – this “quick sync” has eaten the time I’d set aside to actually work on deliverables. Meanwhile, Dave is passionately debating whether our tagline should have a period at the end or not. I wish I were kidding. By the end of the call, the grand outcome is that we’ve committed to a full reformatting of the deck to appease Dave’s branding sensibilities. The product details? Still up in the air. But at least the logo will be the right color!

As I hang up, I jot a note to myself: find time to update 50 slides for Marketing’s color scheme. Actual work be damned — in this company, appearance trumps substance every time. My stomach growls. It’s almost lunchtime and I haven’t even had a chance to think about food. Apparently, nonsense meetings are an appetite suppressant.

12:30 PM – The Perpetual Victim’s Lunchtime Lament

Starving, I finally head to the break room to grab my lunch. I’m hoping for a few minutes of peace, but fate has other plans. Enter The Perpetual Victim, stage left. This is the coworker who lives in a constant state of woe, and today it’s (you guessed it) Dave from Finance — Dave number three, for those keeping count. He corners me by the microwave as I’m heating up my sad leftovers.

“Oh, must be nice to actually have time to eat,” he sighs dramatically. Before I can even muster a reply, Dave from Finance launches into his customary lament. Everything is going wrong for him, as usual. He’s not even asking how I am (not that he ever does); he’s too busy cataloging his grievances:

• The IT team “sabotaged” his project by taking a whole hour to respond to a helpdesk ticket this morning.
• His manager “clearly favors other people” because someone else got assigned a high-profile task that he wanted (which he never actually asked for).
• He’s still stuck on that boring analysis work because “no one ever trains me on new things” — a statement I know is bogus because I literally saw him scrolling Reddit during the last training session.

I nod sympathetically in between bites of cold lasagna, murmuring “That sucks, man” at appropriate intervals. I’ve learned there’s no point trying to offer solutions; Dave isn’t looking for solutions, only an audience. When I gently suggest that maybe he could talk to his manager about getting more training, he sighs, “What’s the point? They never listen. It’s all politics.” Every suggestion is deflected like this. It’s a half-hearted game of Misery Whack-a-Mole — knock one complaint down, two more pop up.

By the time he’s moved on to how the coffee machine never works just for him (pretty sure it’s just empty because he never refills it), my food is gone and so is my patience. I make my escape with a vague excuse about a meeting. As I leave, Dave grumbles something about how nobody understands how hard he has it. I manage not to roll my eyes until I’m safely out of the room. Lunch break is over, and thanks to the Perpetual Victim, I feel even more drained than before.

1:00 PM – HR to the (Non)Rescue, Part 1: The Incompetence Immunity

Instead of a relaxing post-lunch lull, I have a meeting with Linda from HR – the reigning HR Dickhead who enforces policy as if it were the law of the universe. I’d scheduled this meeting to address a pressing issue: one of my team members, John, is colossally incompetent and dragging the project down. I have a stack of evidence: missed deadlines, botched tasks, the works. In any sensible world, John should have been let go months ago. I’m hoping HR will finally help me fire this guy.

I arrive at Linda’s office, folder in hand. She greets me with that signature plastic smile and a chirpy, “Hope you’re having a wonderful day!” – which, in HR code, means “You’re about to jump through flaming hoops.” I barely take a seat before she produces a thick binder. “So,” she says sweetly, “before we talk about John, I’d like to discuss some concerns about your team management approach.”

Wait, what? I came here to talk about John’s performance, but it seems the tables have turned dramatically. Linda flips open a pre-prepared form and begins rattling off my supposed shortcomings as a manager, punctuating each point with her love of policy over practicality:

• I failed to document monthly coaching sessions for John. (Never mind that John’s performance issues are as obvious as the sky is blue — without forms filled in triplicate, they apparently don’t exist.)
• I didn’t give John a formal mid-year review using the approved 12-page template. (Yes, the same template where every employee somehow “meets expectations” because anything else causes a paperwork avalanche.)
• I once expressed frustration in an email about John’s mistakes. (“Not very supportive,” Linda tuts. It was an internal email to IT asking how John managed to delete the shared drive twice in a week!)

As she drones on about “proper procedure” and “leadership accountability,” my lunch threatens to rise back up. Here I am, trying to deal with the real problem, and HR is painting me as the problem for not using the right shade of paperwork.

Finally, Linda slides a document across the table — it’s already filled out, with my name on it. The title: Performance Improvement Plan (PIP). I feel the blood drain from my face. “For me?!” I stammer. Linda nods with a satisfied smile. It appears I’m being PIP’d because I dared to seek action on an underperformer. “We believe this is an opportunity for your growth as a leader,” she explains in a tone so sugary it gives me cavities. “It will help you develop the skills to better support employees like John.”

I scan the PIP: generic objectives about “demonstrating enhanced coaching ability” and “strict adherence to HR protocols.” In short, I’m being punished for John’s incompetence, and the solution is for me to do more work. I feel a vein pulsing in my forehead as I sign the document. Arguing is futile; in Linda’s realm, paperwork is reality.

1:30 PM – HR to the (Non)Rescue, Part 2: Six Months to Nowhere

With my own fate sealed (for now), I steer the conversation back to John. Surely, we can address the fact that he’s about as useful as a chocolate teapot? Linda’s smile somehow widens — she’s been waiting for this. “Of course, regarding John,” she chirps, “firing is really a last resort. Instead, we’ll put him on a Performance Improvement Plan as well – for six months.”

Six months! My jaw drops. That’s half a year of John bumbling around, likely doing more damage. I try to interject, “He’s blatantly not doing his job. Just last week—” but she holds up a hand, thrilled to explain. “You’ll need to have documented coaching meetings with him at least bi-weekly,” she says. “Make sure to detail all feedback in the system. Set clear, attainable goals for each month. We want to give him every opportunity to succeed.”

I can’t help it; I blurt out, “Linda, he lost our biggest client by forgetting to send their proposal. How many opportunities does he need?” Linda gives me a pitying look, as if I just don’t get it. “Sometimes,” she says slowly, “an employee’s failure is a reflection of insufficient support. This is as much an opportunity for you as for John.”

And there it is: opportunity for growth. HR’s favorite spin. Instead of acknowledging John’s incompetence, she frames it as a chance for me to prove I can drag him to adequacy. As a final flourish, Linda adds, “Oh, and we’re enrolling you in our next Mandatory Leadership Training seminar. It’ll help you empower employees like John more effectively.” I am officially through the looking glass. Not only is John safe from termination for six endless months, but I’m getting sent back to leadership school because I couldn’t make a racehorse out of a donkey.

I leave the HR office at 1:45 PM clutching two thick folders: one is my own PIP (a nice little badge of shame for being a responsible manager), and the other is John’s PIP (a detailed plan for wasting the next half-year). My “meeting to fire an incompetent employee” has morphed into a bureaucratic nightmare where the only thing getting fired is my will to live. Instead of backup, I got blame, binders, and a bonus training course. Stellar.

2:00 PM – The Legal Counsel Brick Wall

Back at my desk, I try to refocus on the big project deliverable due by end of day (the one I’ve been heroically piecing together between all these interruptions). It’s time to incorporate the last bit of data, which I had to get approved by Legal. I check my inbox and, right on cue, there’s an email from Dave in Legal — another Dave, because the universe has a cruel sense of humor. Legal Counsel Dickhead rule number one: their answer is always “No” until proven otherwise.

Sure enough, Dave from Legal has concerns. I skim his reply, which is a wall of text that could be summarized as: “We need to assess the risks thoroughly; I cannot sign off on this new approach at this time.” No specifics, of course. Just a big, fat roadblock. Mind you, the “new approach” he’s referring to is a minor software tool we wanted to use to make analysis faster – the same tool half the industry uses. But Legal Dave’s instinctive reaction to anything unfamiliar is to clutch his pearls and slam the brakes.

I take a deep breath and dial his extension. He answers with an exaggeratedly cautious tone: “Hello?” I explain that without his approval today, the project will miss a major deadline. He sighs as if I’ve asked him to break the law. “Look,” he says, “we could get into a compliance issue. Have we run this by the compliance committee and performed a full risk assessment? What about a regulatory impact study?”

I’m pretty sure he’s just stringing together formalities now. “Dave,” I plead, “it’s a data visualization tool, not a nuclear reactor. We’re only using it internally.” He responds with a non-committal, “Better safe than sorry. Let’s table this for now and circle back after we consult the policy team – maybe next quarter.” Next quarter?! That’s like saying never, but politely.

Realizing I’m getting nowhere, I pivot. What can I do right now to keep things moving? Finally, I coax out of him that if we remove one minor feature (a feature that every other company uses without issue), then maybe, just maybe, he “wouldn’t object” to us proceeding temporarily. It’s the tiniest sliver of concession, but I grab it.

I hang up, exasperated. Translation of that call: No real help, only hurdles. I spend the next 20 minutes hastily yanking out the offending feature from the project, essentially dumbing down our deliverable to appease Legal. It’s maddening – we’re basically doing a worse job just to avoid an imaginary risk. By 2:50 PM, I’ve patched things up well enough and fire off the report to the team and our department head, feeling a surge of weary triumph. Working around Legal Dave was like running through quicksand, but the deliverable is finally out the door. Little do I know, the Credit Vulture is already circling overhead, ready to swoop in.

3:00 PM – The Credit Vulture Swoops In

We have a project debrief with senior leadership at 3:00 to review the results. I dial in expecting to walk everyone through the key findings of my hard-won report. But as soon as introductions wrap up, Clive, our VP and resident Credit Vulture, swoops in. Clive hasn’t so much as asked me about this project in six months, yet here he is now, magically present the moment praise is on the horizon.

“Let me kick things off,” Clive announces to the VPs, flashing a confident grin. “Our team has been working tirelessly on this initiative, and I’m proud to report we’ve achieved excellent results.” Our team? I blink. As far as I recall, it was me(and two other grunts) doing all the tireless work, while Clive was busy attending meetings about meetings. The audacity is palpable.

He proceeds to summarize my report slide by slide, talking through each insight as if it’s his personal brainchild. Whenever there’s a particularly positive result or clever analysis, he adds a self-congratulatory flourish like, “I advised the team to consider this approach, and it really paid off.” I bite my tongue so hard I almost taste blood. Advised us? The man wouldn’t even know this data existed if I hadn’t hand-delivered it to his inbox (which, by the way, I did, with zero response).

My webcam is off (thankfully), so no one sees me facepalm or glare daggers through the screen as Clive keeps going. At one point I attempt to chime in—perhaps to actually explain a technical detail I worked on—but Clive casually cuts me off: “Right, right, we’ll get into the weeds later. Let’s move on for now.” And just like that, he barrels ahead, monopolizing the discussion. It’s a masterclass in professional credit theft. I’m watching my hard work get co-opted in real time, and I’ve been rendered invisible, a ghostwriter on my own project.

The meeting wraps up with the higher-ups congratulating Clive on “his” successful project. They thank him for leading the effort so effectively. He basks in the praise, responding with a humblebrag, “Couldn’t have done it without my team,” which would mean something if he had actually been part of the team. As everyone leaves the call, Clive has the nerve to tell me, “Great job, everyone!” as if he didn’t just rob me blind in broad daylight.

I sit in the empty conference room after the call, staring at the screen in exhausted disbelief. That little spark of pride I felt at 2:50 PM? Completely doused. And then, just as predictably as the sunrise, by 3:30 PM I get a LinkedIn notification on my phone. Sure enough, Clive has already posted: “Proud of my team for delivering outstanding results on our project! #leadership #success.” He doesn’t mention who actually did the work, of course. I resist the urge to throw my phone across the room. Instead, I indulge in a brief fantasy of printing out the entire email thread of me spoon-feeding him updates and stapling it to his office door. It’s either that or scream into the void.

4:30 PM – The Consultant’s Big Reveal (of Stuff We Already Knew)

Just when I think this day can’t get any more absurd, it’s time for the grand finale. Remember that high-priced consultant our company hired a few weeks ago? He’s scheduled to present his “fresh insights” to leadership this afternoon. Join me in welcoming Matt, the Consultant Dickhead, to put a nice bow on my day.

At 4:30, I drag myself into yet another meeting and watch as Matt, clad in a slick suit and an even slicker smile, unveils the results of his very expensive consultation. His slide deck title? “Strategic Optimization Roadmap.” (Original, I know.) In glossy corporate graphics and over-rehearsed spiel, he proceeds to tell our executives exactly what we’ve been telling each other for months — only now it’s important because an outsider is saying it. His “innovative solutions” are eerily familiar:

• Recommendation 1: Improve the precise process I walked him through last Tuesday, now rebranded as the “Operational Realignment Initiative.” (He basically just renamed our workflow and added arrows in a flowchart.)
• Recommendation 2: Adopt the new software tool that I suggested in an email last month — presented now as his firm’s brilliant idea, complete with fancy diagrams. (Funny, when I pitched it, Legal Dave and Clive weren’t interested. Now it’s pure gold.)
• Recommendation 3: Encourage cross-team communication — essentially the same plea my colleagues and I have been making for a year, magically credible now that it’s coming from a highly-paid consultant with a laser pointer.

Matt delivers each point with a level of confidence only someone being paid a small fortune can muster. He sprinkles in plenty of consultant-speak for good measure: “industry benchmarking,” “holistic synergy assessment,” “value-stream maximization.” It’s like listening to Buzzword Strategist Dave all over again, except with better hair and a posh accent. The executives are eating it up. I see our CEO nodding vigorously at Recommendation 2 – the very suggestion that got zero traction when I raised it. One VP scribbles notes as if hearing divine prophecy.

Throughout the presentation, Matt makes sure to reference “input from the team” and “insights gathered on the ground.” By “the team,” he means me and my coworkers – the poor saps who spent hours explaining every nuance of our operations to him so he wouldn’t look clueless. Not that he gives any of us real credit by name. Of course not. Why share the spotlight when you can pretend all this knowledge sprang from your proprietary “consulting methodology”?

By now my frustration has morphed into a sort of delirious amusement. It’s so brazen it’s almost funny. I exchange a look with a fellow mid-level manager in the room; we both subtly shake our heads in disbelief. Are we really watching this guy get lauded for parroting our ideas back to us? Oh yes, we are.

Matt wraps up with a flourish, concluding that implementing his recommendations “could increase efficiency by up to 20%.” The CEO breaks into applause. One of the VPs enthusiastically chimes in, “This is exactly why we bring in outside experts — fresh perspective!” Fresh perspective, indeed. More like old news repackaged as revelation and served on a silver platter.

As everyone thanks Matt for his “invaluable expertise” and logs off, I’m left sitting there with a defeated smirk. I should be furious, but I’m too drained to muster more than a cynical chuckle. This entire day has been a circus of dickheads, and I’ve been the lone clown running between rings trying to put out fires with a squirt gun.

5:30 PM – Clocking Out (Resigned to the Absurdity)

At long last, the workday mercifully ends. I shut down my laptop and lean back in my chair, taking a moment to replay the highlight reel of ridiculousness I survived today. From start to finish, it’s been a veritable decathlon of office idiocy:

• The Buzzword Strategist gave me a headache with his jargon overdose (but hey, I hit a new high score in Buzzword Bingo).
• The Passive-Aggressive Emailer tried to guilt-trip me before I’d even finished my morning coffee.
• The Over-Delegator dumped his work on me and called it teamwork.
• The Marketing Dickhead derailed real work to obsess over logo colors and fonts.
• The Perpetual Victim drained my energy with a lunchtime sob story of eternal persecution.
• The HR Dickhead served me a paperwork sandwich instead of actual support, protecting the incompetent and punishing the diligent.
• The Legal Counsel Dickhead blocked progress for sport until I basically begged for scraps of permission.
• The Credit Vulture swooped in to steal my thunder and got applauded for my efforts.
• The Consultant Dickhead repackaged my team’s ideas and walked away with a hero’s thanks.

Nine circles of corporate hell, all before quitting time. Is this real life? I grab my bag and head for the exit, feeling equal parts exasperated and vindicated (in a twisted way). On my way out, I pass by Strategy Dave’s office – he’s happily sketching out “synergy matrices” on his whiteboard (don’t ask, I have no idea). I see Paula in the hallway sweetly informing another coworker, “No rush if you’re busy, but FYI, I did ping you about that thing yesterday…” (I shudder on the coworker’s behalf). Sales Dave is bragging to someone by the water cooler about how “we” nailed that client proposal (the one I wrote for him). Marketing Dave is fussing with the lobby signage, muttering that the kerning is off-brand. Down the hall, I catch a glimpse of Linda from HR, cheerfully reminding an intern about tomorrow’s mandatory team-building workshop. Clive is in the elevator telling an exec about “the project he led to success.” And Consultant Matt is probably already in a taxi to the airport, off to enlighten the next company with things they already know.

Stepping out into the fresh air of early evening, I let out a long, weary sigh. What a day. It’s the kind of day you have to laugh about, because the alternative is punching a hole through your monitor. The absurdity is so complete, it’s almost impressive. I managed to slog through all of it without losing my job or my sanity — a minor miracle. As I walk to my car, a tired smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. After all, this whole mess is so ridiculously absurd that it’s kind of entertaining (in hindsight, anyway).

This is corporate life in all its glory and grime: you wade through the nonsense because, against all logic and self-preservation, some part of you still cares about doing a good job. I buckle my seatbelt, already dreading tomorrow’s parade of meetings and madness, but slightly comforted by one thought: at least I’ll have plenty of material for my next happy hour rant. In the grand comedy of office existence, today was a five-star performance — and regrettably, there’s sure to be an encore tomorrow.