“HOW DO YOU STAY SERIOUS WHEN TIM CONWAY JUST LOOKS AT YOU?” Harvey Korman used to joke that he could act through anything… except standing next to Tim Conway without cracking up. The moment Tim walked in — that crooked little walk, that whispery voice like he was hiding some trouble — Harvey’s shoulders would start shaking, lips twitching, already losing the fight. No script ever survived the chaos. A poker scene could explode in seconds, a surgery sketch would fall apart before the first line. Even Vicki Lawrence couldn’t keep a straight face — the whole set would collapse into laughter like a classroom on the first day of summer break. That was comedy you couldn’t rehearse. Tim just had to show up, and the world fell apart laughing.

There are comedians who make you laugh, and then there are comedians who make you forget how to breathe. Tim Conway was the second kind — the type of performer who didn’t have to speak, didn’t have to deliver a punchline, didn’t even have to blink a certain way. He just had to exist, and the room fell apart.

Harvey Korman knew this better than anyone. He used to joke that he could handle any script, any character, any crazy setup… except standing next to Tim without cracking up. And honestly, who could blame him? Tim had that rare gift — the ability to let chaos drip from every tiny movement. The crooked shuffle. The slow-motion blinks. The whispery, suspicious voice that made it seem like he was up to something even when he wasn’t. Harvey would start shaking before Tim even reached his mark.

What made their dynamic magical was that none of it felt forced. It wasn’t comedy built from big speeches or elaborate writing — it was comedy born from pure instinct. Tim would throw a tiny curveball into a scene, something so small it almost looked accidental, and suddenly the whole sketch would derail in the most glorious way possible. A simple poker game could turn into a full-blown disaster. A medical scene could collapse before the first joke was even delivered. Even Vicki Lawrence — famously composed, famously sharp — would break, covering her face as she tried to hold herself together.

And the audience loved it. Not because the jokes were perfect, but because the laughter was real. Unscripted. Human. You could see the cast fighting for composure, and the harder they tried, the funnier Tim became. It felt like watching friends lose it at the dinner table — warm, chaotic, and completely unforgettable.

The Carol Burnett Show thrived on those moments. Tim Conway turned every sketch into a live minefield of unpredictable humor, and the cast willingly walked right into it every time. His genius wasn’t in trying to be funny — it was in being effortlessly, naturally, uncontrollably hilarious.

And maybe that’s why his comedy still holds up today. It wasn’t just entertainment.
It was joy — pure, contagious, impossible-to-resist joy.