Not on purpose, I think, but "not a clue" might apply to our waitress at Cracker Barrel several years ago. We'd been going there for years and knew she was brand new---apparently her first day. She approached our table with a breathless, "I just don't think this is going to work out---they gave me four tables and NOBODY can serve FOUR tables!"
She brought water, and told us again how busy she was, imparting the same information to the table back of us as she scooted away.
Menus, finally, and some beverages, Hubby's tea minus the lemon. We asked; she brought. Two little crescents of lemon, lying right on the CORK surface of her tray. She took each one daintily between thumb and forefinger and balanced them neatly on their little rocky sides, on the bare tabletop. We could not wait to hold our mouths and stifle guffaws.
She took the order, with another bit of info: "I told them it was just too rushed, so they let me do just TWO tables!"
Back with most of the order, with us needing to ask only for butter, the syrup, and the whipped cream for the top of Hubby's pancakes. She sped away, returning with butter and syrup. We requested the cream.
Back she came, very fast, with a lovely sculptured pouf of cream in a little bowl. She had apparently grabbed a bowl from the hot dishwasher, or hot from the warmer, because when she skidded to a stop, cream did not. It made a neat arc past the tabletop and managed to land "PLOP" right in Hubby's crotch.
I just hee-hawed, right there in the restaurant, along with a growing swell of laughter from the surrounding tables. We laughed, wiped our eyes, laughed some more. I think I remember a moment of applause, somewhere.
She brought lots of napkins, apologized profusely, and was quite embarrassed. I made him tip her extra.
We never saw her after that day, but I'd PAY to see THAT again.