The meeting starts.
The screens load.
The silence stretches.
And then, the prophecy is fulfilled. Your eyes roll into the dark chasm that is the back of your skull as you hear the host say, yet again, “You’re on mute, Janice.”

It happens every time. The three words that haunt every Zoom call that should’ve been an email. The pause that kills you a little inside. The ritual sacrifice of five collective minutes we’ll never get back.

This isn’t just a mug. It’s ceramic proof that despair comes in sips. Drink from it in your Monday stand-up, your Friday all-hands, or the “quick sync” that eats your afternoon. Or give it to Janice herself — she’ll laugh, cry, hate you, or finally unmute.

It’s brutal. It’s funny. It’s painfully real.