The second Tim Conway opened his mouth, Harvey Korman completely lost it. What was meant to be a routine sketch on The Carol Burnett Show quickly spiraled into one of the most unforgettable on-air meltdowns in television history. Viewers didn’t just watch a comedy bit unfold — they watched it unravel in real time.
The setup seemed simple enough. The cast took their places. The audience settled in. On paper, it was just another cleverly written scene in a show known for sharp timing and polished performances. But when Conway stepped in with that unmistakable glint in his eye, everything changed.
He began with an exaggerated accent that felt just slightly off. Not loud. Not over-the-top. Just different enough to make the room lean in. Then came the pauses — held a fraction too long. The kind of silence that makes you wonder if something has gone wrong, only to realize it’s entirely intentional.
Harvey Korman sensed the danger almost immediately.
He tried to hold the line. He bit his lip. He turned away from Conway, attempting to reset his composure. He even covered his face at one point, as if physically blocking the laughter might somehow stop it. But the more he fought it, the funnier it became.
Conway, of course, kept pushing.
Each line was delivered with calm precision, as if he had no idea chaos was blooming beside him. Then came the wildly unexpected prop choices — details so absurd and so perfectly timed that the scene drifted further from the script with every passing second.
And then it happened: the now-iconic striped underwear reveal.
Any remaining hope of staying in character vanished. The audience exploded. Korman folded into helpless laughter. The rest of the cast unraveled. Even the crew behind the cameras seemed to be shaking from the force of it.
What made the moment legendary wasn’t just the joke. It was the authenticity. Nothing felt forced. Nothing felt manufactured. It was live television walking a tightrope — and gleefully falling off it.
Decades later, the clip still circulates for one simple reason: it captures something rare. Not polished comedy. Not controlled brilliance.
But pure, unscripted magic — the kind you can’t rehearse, can’t predict, and can never quite recreate.
