If you grew up watching The Carol Burnett Show, you knew the golden rule: The sketch wasn’t the point. The point was seeing how long it would take for Tim Conway to destroy Harvey Korman.
Harvey was a classically trained actor. He wanted to do the scene right. Tim was an agent of chaos. He wanted to make Harvey cry.
There is a legendary story—a mix of memory and myth—about a sketch set in a grim WWII interrogation room. It remains one of the greatest examples of why live television will never be matched.
The Setup
The premise was dark, but the context was comedy. Harvey Korman played a ruthless, terrifying German officer. He was dressed in a pristine uniform, a monocle fixed in his eye, and a riding crop in his hand.
Tim Conway was the prisoner. He was a hapless American private, standing at rigid attention, terrified and silent.
The script was serious (for a comedy show). Harvey was supposed to scream, intimidate, and demand the secret codes. Tim was supposed to tremble.
“You will tell me the location of your unit!” Harvey roared, leaning inches from Tim’s face. “Or you will suffer the consequences!”
It was going perfectly. The audience was silent. Harvey was in the zone.
And then, Tim Conway saw the fly.
The Invisible Enemy
There was no fly in the studio. But in Tim’s mind, a massive, buzzing pest had just landed squarely on the tip of his nose.
Because his character was standing at attention, Tim couldn’t use his hands to swat it away. He had to improvise.
As Harvey continued his menacing monologue—” We have ways of making you talk!”—Tim’s nose twitched. Just a little. Then, he blew a sharp puff of air upward. Phhhht.
Harvey paused for a micro-second. He saw the twitch. He knew that look in Tim’s eyes. It was the look of a man who had gone completely off-script. Harvey tightened his jaw, determined not to break.
The Escalation
Harvey leaned in closer, trying to use his physical presence to force Tim back into the scene. “Do you think this is a game, American?”
Tim didn’t answer. instead, he jutted his lower jaw out. He began to contort his mouth, stretching his upper lip in a grotesque attempt to reach the invisible intruder.
The audience started to titter. They realized what was happening before Harvey did.
Tim began to make a low, buzzing sound in the back of his throat. Zzzzzzz.
Harvey’s eyes widened. He could feel the laughter bubbling up in his chest like a volcano. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard it must have hurt. He turned away sharply, pretending to pace the room, just to hide his face from the camera.
“I am waiting for an answer!” Harvey shouted at the wall, his voice cracking slightly.
The Killing Blow
When Harvey turned back around, Tim had escalated the war. He wasn’t just twitching anymore.
Tim’s tongue darted out. It flicked toward his nose, then retracted. Then it happened again. Rapid-fire. He looked like a malfunctioning chameleon trying to catch a snack.
Harvey stopped mid-sentence. He looked at Tim. He looked at the tongue.
Tim raised his eyebrows, a silent plea that said: Are you going to get this thing, or do I have to eat it?
The “terrifying officer” mask crumbled. Harvey’s face turned a deep shade of crimson. He let out a high-pitched squeak—a sound that definitely wasn’t in the script. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking violently.
The Surrender
Sensing victory, Tim delivered the final blow. He wound up his head and let out a massive, exaggerated sneeze—“ACHOO!”—followed by a loud gulp and a smile of pure satisfaction.
He had eaten the invisible fly.
That was it. Harvey Korman collapsed onto the interrogation desk, sobbing with laughter. He waved his hand at the camera, signaling “Cut,” but the director kept rolling. The audience was roaring so loud the floorboards shook.
It wasn’t a scene about war anymore. It was a scene about two best friends playing in a sandbox, seeing who could make the other fall down first.
Why We Still Watch
Years later, people don’t remember the lines from that sketch. They don’t remember the plot. But they remember Harvey Korman wiping tears from his eyes, defeated by the genius of Tim Conway.
It reminds us that perfection isn’t always the goal. Sometimes, the most beautiful moments in life happen when the script goes out the window, and you just have to laugh.