There was a day on The Carol Burnett Show when the entire studio was in on the joke.
The writers knew.
The crew knew.
The cameras were already positioned to catch every reaction.
Everyone knew—except Harvey Korman.
That alone tells you everything you need to know about how Tim Conway liked to work.
The sketch itself was simple and familiar. Harvey played the straight man, as he often did—sharp, dignified, completely grounded in the logic of the scene. Tim was beside him, seemingly harmless. They had rehearsed. The lines were clean. The beats were locked in. Harvey felt safe.
What Harvey didn’t know was that Tim had quietly decided to change one crucial detail.
Not a big change.
Not a loud one.
Just a small, absurd twist planted exactly where it would do the most damage.
As the cameras rolled, Tim delivered his opening line normally. Harvey responded, calm and confident. Then Tim added the unexpected detail—something so illogical, so casually insane, that it didn’t even sound like a joke at first.
You can watch the moment unfold.
Harvey’s eyes shift.
His mouth tightens.
He pauses just a fraction too long.
That pause is everything.
In that instant, Harvey realizes three things at once: the line wasn’t in the script, the audience has already caught it, and there is no safe response left. The trap has closed.
Harvey tries to recover. He looks down. He swallows hard. He attempts to stay in character. But Tim, sensing blood in the water, keeps going—calm, innocent, completely committed to the nonsense. Every new line tightens the knot.
The studio audience starts to crack. Laughter builds, not because of punchlines, but because everyone can see Harvey fighting a losing battle.
Then it happens.
Harvey breaks.
Not politely. Not gracefully. He bends forward, shaking, covering his face, laughter spilling out uncontrollably. The scene is over, but the cameras keep rolling. Tim doesn’t stop. He never does. He simply waits, letting the moment breathe, letting Harvey drown in it.
And that’s why the clip became legendary.
It wasn’t scripted comedy anymore. It was real. A master performer undone by trust, timing, and a friend who knew him too well. Harvey wasn’t laughing because the joke was funny—he was laughing because resistance was impossible.
That’s the magic Tim Conway understood better than anyone.
Comedy doesn’t live in the script.
It lives in the moment someone realizes they’re trapped—and laughs anyway.
And on that day, with everyone watching, Harvey Korman gave comedy history one of its most honest laughs.