It started, like most terrible ideas in the corporate world, during a mandatory “Wellness Wednesday” meeting.
Lara from HR — a woman so bland she could be mistaken for unsalted porridge — was reading from a PowerPoint slide titled “Empathy in the Workplace.” The font was Comic Sans. Someone, somewhere, had been paid real money to make that decision.
Lara was halfway through explaining how we were all “one big family,” which was funny considering families didn’t generally fire you by email at 4:59 p.m. on a Friday.
I leaned over to Beryl, my office partner-in-survival, and whispered, “If she says ‘work-life balance’ one more time, I’m going to achieve enlightenment through self-immolation.”
She snorted into her coffee, which was the highlight of my week so far.
And then it happened — the moment that would change everything.
Lara said, “Remember, team — mental health days are totally valid reasons to take time off. We understand everyone needs to recharge sometimes.”
There was a pause. You could feel the entire room thinking the same thing. Then, from the back, someone whispered: “Tell that to Lorna.”
Ah yes, Lorna. The eternal martyr. The office Houdini. The woman who had taken more “sick days” than a plague victim.
Last month it was “food poisoning” — which somehow always struck immediately after long weekends. Before that, “a minor concussion from a shelving accident.” Once, memorably, “eye strain from LED office lights.”
And yet, every Monday, her Instagram showed her “recuperating” in some beer garden, holding up a beer like a trophy of resilience.
That’s when Beryl, in her infinite mischief, leaned in and whispered: “We should make a game out of it.”
I turned to her. “A game?”
“Yeah,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Bullshit Bingo.”
By lunchtime, the idea had metastasized like office gossip. We printed a bingo grid on company letterhead — because if you’re going to commit an HR crime, at least do it with branding — and filled the boxes with every cliché excuse we could think of:
- Food poisoning
- Migraine
- Back pain from office chair
- Stress leave
- COVID (again)
- Dog ate my modem
- Family emergency
- Burnout
- Dentist appointment
- Didn’t sleep well
Beryl added one square that just said ‘Something vague and emotional’. I added ‘Got test results back (don’t ask)’.
We pinned the sheet up inside the break room, behind the microwave — sacred ground where management rarely ventured because it smelled like despair and reheated fish.
By Friday, the entire floor was playing. The rules were simple: when Lorna — or anyone, really — called in sick, we’d mark the corresponding excuse. First person to get five in a row won a free coffee, paid for by whoever last defended management in conversation.
The prize didn’t matter. The principle did.
Monday, 9:02 a.m. An email pinged.
Subject: Out Sick Today
Hey Team!
Not feeling great — stomach bug or something. I’ll try to check emails later if I can.
– Lorna
Beryl leapt out of her chair like she’d won the lottery. “FOOD POISONING!” she yelled.
The break room exploded in applause.
“Jesus Christ, it’s the third one this month,” said Ally from IT. “Does she lick public toilets for fun?”
“She’s got the immune system of a wet tissue,” said Jess.
I marked the box with a Sharpie. First blood.
Tuesday, 10:41 a.m. Another email. Different sender this time.
Subject: Sick Leave
Morning everyone,
Just wanted to let you know I won’t be in today — bad migraine. Must’ve been the fluorescent lights again.
Cheers,
Katy
The room went silent. Then Beryl yelled, “Double hit! Lorna and Katy! The gods are generous today!”
Someone produced a cowbell. I have no idea where it came from. The sound echoed through the cubicles like a war cry.
From that moment on, Bullshit Bingo became an institution. Every time someone called in sick, we’d gather like gamblers at a horse race. People started taking bets.
“Ten euros says it’s ‘back pain.’”
“Five on ‘COVID again.’”
“Twenty if they say ‘self-care day.’”
The office had never been more alive. Productivity plummeted, morale soared. HR had accidentally created a bonding exercise through shared cynicism. The irony was delicious.
Two weeks later, it reached critical mass. Lara from HR — yes, that Lara — sent an all-staff email titled “Health and Wellbeing: A Company Priority.”
She wrote, “We’re proud to see our staff taking care of themselves, but please remember to provide adequate documentation for absences longer than three days.”
Beryl forwarded it to everyone with the subject line “Translation: Lorna’s been busted.”
Within an hour, Lorna posted an Instagram story: her on a boat. Caption: “Recovering on the water. Doctors say sunshine helps.”
It was mid-November. In Scotland.
Jess printed it out and taped it to the bingo board like a shrine.
Then came The Great Contagion Incident. It was a Thursday. Cold and miserable, the kind of day that smells like bottled depression and repressed homicide.
At 9:06 a.m., an email pinged:
Subject: Working from home today
Hey all,
Bit of a sore throat, don’t want to risk spreading anything. Probably nothing but better safe than sorry.
– Lorna
“COVID,” said Beryl. “A classic.”
Ally from IT looked up from her desk. “We had that one already. We need something new.”
Jess frowned. “We need innovation.”
As if on cue, at 9:10 a.m., another message came through.
Subject: Sick Day
Hi all,
Can’t log in today, my cat knocked tea over my laptop and it’s fried. I’ll be offline until IT can fix it.
– Katy
There was a moment of silence. Then, an eruption of cheers. Jess grabbed a pen and scribbled a new square: “Cat-related IT failure.”
We had officially moved into Expansion Pack Territory.
By December, the game had evolved. People were submitting entries like “Too depressed to function (but will attend Zoom)”, “Sprained ankle from mindful yoga”, and “Post-vaccine fatigue (third booster)”.
Someone even added “Had to take a mental health day because the printer jammed.”
In January, the company rolled out a new HR platform called ZenTrack — an Orwellian tool that “streamlined employee wellbeing tracking.”
Translation: a digital narc system that logged every sneeze, sigh, and mental breakdown for quarterly analysis.
Lorna immediately filed for “stress leave.” Beryl nearly broke a rib laughing. “She’s stress-leaving from what, exactly? Not showing up?”
I checked the bingo board. We were one square away from victory. All we needed was “Family Emergency.”
The prophecy fulfilled itself within 48 hours.
Subject: OOO
Hi everyone,
Won’t be in for a few days. Family emergency — can’t say more right now. Appreciate your understanding.
– Lorna
The office erupted like a football stadium. Ally from IT set off a confetti cannon she’d apparently been saving for months. The break room filled with paper shrapnel and unprocessed rage.
“BULLSHIT BINGO!” Beryl screamed, arms in the air like she’d just liberated France.
I swear someone cried. It was beautiful. We celebrated like idiots. Ordered pizza and popped cheap prosecco. Even the boss, a man who could’ve been carved from beige, wandered in to see what the fuss was about.
“What’s all this?” he asked, smiling nervously like someone who’d just walked into an illegal rave.
“Team-building exercise,” I said.
He nodded. “Love to see initiative.”
He left. We howled.
In February, we’d assumed the game would die after that. How wrong we were. A new champion emerged. Sabrina. She was 62, two years from retirement, and had perfected the art of strategic absenteeism.
Her skill was legendary. She once took two weeks off for “seasonal affective disorder” – in July. Another time, she vanished for five days citing “existential dread.” No one questioned it — because who wasn’t feeling that?
Jess proposed a Bullshit Bingo: Sabrina Edition.
The categories were glorious:
- Allergic to office carpet.
- Too cold to concentrate.
- Didn’t want to drive under dark clouds.
- The child’s hamster died (again).
- Awaiting test results for something mysterious.
- Moved furniture, injured my karma.
- Spiritually exhausted.
We’d created a monster. And then HR found out. It happened because some intern — sweet, naive, and probably still believed in company values — reported the game as “creating a toxic environment.”
Beryl’s reaction: “Oh, honey, this is the toxic environment. We’re just decorating it.”
Lara from HR called an “urgent culture meeting.” We all gathered in the conference room, pretending to be solemn while trying not to laugh.
Lara cleared her throat. “We’ve become aware of… a ‘certain game’ being circulated in the workplace.”
She actually did the air quotes. She continued: “While we understand humor can be a coping mechanism, this particular activity is being seen as disrespectful and undermining our culture of empathy.”
Beryl raised her hand. “What culture?”
Lara blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I said,” she repeated, “what culture? The one where people fake burnout to get Fridays off? Or the one where we have ‘Wellness Seminars’ instead of pay raises?”
The room froze. Lara looked like someone had unplugged her soul.
“I’ll… take that as feedback,” she said finally.
That night, the bingo board vanished. Cleaned off the wall. Gone. The next morning, a laminated HR poster appeared in its place:
WE ARE ALL ONE TEAM!
RESPECT • EMPATHY • WELLNESS.
AT LEAST PRETEND TO BE HAPPY WORKING HERE.
Underneath, someone had taped a note:
“We’re not pretending.”
Corporate retaliation was swift and predictable. They rolled out a new policy: “Transparent Absence Tracking.” Everyone now had to list the specific reason for any sick day in the shared calendar.
Within 24 hours, the office looked like a fever dream:
- Explosive diarrhoea (unconfirmed).
- Psychic hangover.
- Trapped finger in moral compass.
- Existential dread relapse.
- Recovering from the meeting that should’ve been an email.
- Emotional Damage from PowerPoint exposure.
- Spiritual food poisoning from office culture.
HR gave up.
Then, one fateful morning, Lorna returned. She walked in like a war hero — pale, fragile, and clutching a latte the size of a toddler.
Everyone stared. She looked around, confused. “What?”
“Nothing,” Beryl said sweetly. “We just didn’t recognise you without a sick note.”
She frowned. “I’ve been dealing with a lot.”
Beryl smiled. “Sure. We all have.”
That day, she actually did some work. For about an hour. Then disappeared for an “emergency appointment.” The following week, management announced layoffs. Suddenly, the energy shifted. Everyone got tense. Desks got quieter. Even Beryl was subdued.
And then — like fate refusing to be denied — Lorna called in sick again.
Subject: Sick Day
Hi,
Feeling rough. Might be burnout.
– Lorna
Beryl looked at me. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
I nodded. “One last game.”
We resurrected the board. Not for prizes. Not for laughs. But as a memorial to everything that was broken, ridiculous, and human about this place. People from every department came by to sign it — like a gravestone for collective sanity. Even Lara wandered past, sighed, and said quietly: “Just… don’t put my name on it.”
We didn’t. But we all knew she was playing too.
The layoffs hit two weeks later. Lorna survived. Of course he did. Ants and Lorna always do. Beryl got cut. Ally too.
I stayed — “core staff,” they said. Translation: “cheap and expendable.”
The day after Beryl left, I came in to find something taped to my monitor. A single bingo card. Handwritten.
One box filled in: ‘Survivor’s guilt.’
Underneath it said: “Your move.”
And that’s when I realised the truth: Bullshit Bingo wasn’t just about mocking laziness. It was about documenting the absurdity of pretending to care in a system that doesn’t. We’d all been making excuses — Lorna just made them out loud. We lied to survive. Lied to ourselves that this job mattered, that any of it meant anything beyond the next pay cycle.
And maybe that’s the biggest bullshit square of them all: “Believes in company purpose.”
Still, I kept the board. It’s on my wall now, next to my resignation letter draft. Every time an email pings from HR, I look at it and think: mark that one down. And sometimes, when the fluorescent lights start humming and I feel my soul exiting through my ears, I whisper to myself,
“Full house.”
Six months later, I ran into Beryl at a bar. She looked radiant — freelancing, happy, and unshackled.
“Guess what?” I said. “Lorna got promoted.”
Beryl laughed so hard she nearly choked on her whisky. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Head of Employee Wellness.”
We clinked glasses.
“New game?” she asked.
I grinned. “Oh yeah. I’m calling it Corporate Karma. The winner gets to quit.”
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