What should have been a simple stop at a gas station became one of the most unforgettable moments in television comedy history. On The Carol Burnett Show, Tim Conway had an unmatched ability to transform the ordinary into absolute mayhem. In this particular sketch, nothing explosive was written into the script—yet everything unraveled spectacularly. And at the center of it all stood Harvey Korman, doing his best to survive.
The premise was simple enough. A routine interaction. A straightforward situation. But when Tim Conway stepped into the scene, “routine” was no longer an option. With deliberate slowness and exaggerated confusion, he began stretching each moment far beyond its natural limits. A pause lasted just a second too long. A reaction came just a beat too late. And suddenly, the audience sensed the storm brewing.
Conway’s genius wasn’t loud or frantic. It was quiet, controlled, and dangerously patient. He didn’t need over-the-top punchlines or dramatic gestures. Instead, he relied on stillness, blank stares, and painfully slow movements that made every second feel unpredictable. The longer he delayed, the funnier it became. Anticipation built, and laughter followed.
Harvey Korman, ever the professional, entered the sketch determined to hold his composure. He had faced Conway’s antics before and knew the risks. His posture stayed firm, his lines delivered with precision, his expression carefully restrained. But there’s only so much discipline a person can maintain when chaos is unfolding inches away.
The true magic happened in the space between the scripted lines. Conway would answer a question in the most unexpectedly clueless way possible, or move with exaggerated care as though unaware of the mounting absurdity. Each choice was small on its own, but together they formed a perfectly crafted dismantling of the scene.
The audience could feel it happening in real time. Their laughter often began before the joke fully landed, because they understood the pattern. They knew Conway was setting a trap. They watched as Korman fought against the inevitable, his face tightening as he tried desperately not to break.
Then came the cracks. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A quick turn away from the camera. A barely suppressed smile. The more Harvey tried to maintain control, the funnier it became. His struggle became part of the performance, elevating the sketch beyond scripted comedy into something spontaneous and electric.
What made the moment unforgettable was the contrast between the two performers. Conway played the calm instigator, gently pushing the boundaries without ever appearing rushed. Korman became the dignified victim, unraveling piece by piece. It wasn’t cruelty—it was chemistry. Each understood the other perfectly.
The sketch didn’t fall apart because of mistakes; it thrived because of them. The breaking character, the audience’s roaring laughter, the visible loss of composure—these weren’t flaws. They were the highlight. Viewers weren’t just watching a scene; they were witnessing a live comedic duel where timing was everything.
In the end, what started as a simple gas station stop became a masterclass in controlled chaos. Tim Conway proved that comedy doesn’t need noise to be powerful—it needs precision. And Harvey Korman’s valiant, doomed attempt to stay serious only made the explosion of laughter that much sweeter. It remains one of the purest examples of unstoppable, unforgettable television comedy.
