In the golden age of television, scripts were sacred. But on The Carol Burnett Show, scripts were merely suggestions—especially when Tim Conway was on stage.

For millions of viewers tuning in every week, the real show wasn’t the sketch itself. It was the game within the game: Could Tim Conway make Harvey Korman break character?

There is one legendary, un-aired moment—often whispered about by studio hands and die-hard fans—that stands as the ultimate testament to their comedic warfare. It was the “Airline” sketch, a scene that was supposed to be about a terrified passenger. Instead, it became a masterclass in the art of the meltdown.

The premise was simple enough for a Tuesday afternoon rehearsal. Harvey Korman was cast as a high-strung business traveler, the only passenger on a budget airline flight through a storm. Tim Conway was the Captain—a man who looked like he had earned his pilot’s license from a cereal box.

The script called for a moment of high tension. The plane would hit turbulence, the lights would flicker, and Captain Conway was supposed to pick up the intercom and deliver a grave, scripted line: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing minor engine trouble.”

That was it. That was the line.

But as the cameras rolled and the studio audience settled in, Tim Conway decided the scene was too quiet. He decided the intercom needed a “reality check.”

The Glitch
When the cue came, Tim didn’t speak. He picked up the prop microphone, stared dead-eyed into the camera, and began to mimic a short-circuiting electrical system using only his throat.

It started with a low hum, like an angry bee trapped in a jar. Then came the pop-hiss-crackle.

Harvey Korman, strapped into seat 1A, maintained his composure—at first. He furrowed his brow, acting the part of the confused passenger. But then, Tim escalated. He started adding “interference.”

Tim’s cheeks puffed out. His eyes crossed slightly. He emitted a high-pitched, garbled squeal that sounded like a dolphin trying to speak Morse code. “Bzzzt-fweeeeee-glarb-zzzt.”

The Battle of Wills
Across the aisle, the transformation of Harvey Korman began.

This was the moment the audience lived for. Harvey wasn’t shaking from the simulated turbulence anymore. He was shaking from the sheer, physical agony of holding back a laugh.

Harvey bit his lip so hard it turned white. He stared at his knees. He stared at the ceiling. He did everything he could to avoid looking at the cockpit. But the sounds were relentless. Tim Conway wasn’t just making noise; he was having a full conversation with himself in a language that didn’t exist, punctuated by violent, saliva-spraying static.

Every time Harvey thought it was over, Tim would tap the mic and unleash a new, wetter, louder noise.

The Final Straw
Tim, sensing blood in the water, made his move. He knew Harvey was on the ropes. The script was long gone. The director was likely burying his face in his hands in the control booth.

Tim leaned intimately close to the microphone, his face inches from the lens, and delivered the coup de grâce. It wasn’t a sound effect anymore. It was a slow, deflating wheeze—like a bagpipe dying a slow death—followed by a sharp, confused “Huh?”

That was it.

Harvey Korman exploded. He didn’t just chuckle; he convulsed. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving, tears streaming down his face, surrendering completely to the madness. The “fourth wall” didn’t just break; it shattered.

The scene took minutes to recover. The audience was in hysterics, not because of the jokes written on the page, but because of the genuine, human joy of watching two best friends trying to outwit each other.

Harvey Korman often said that Tim was his favorite person to work with, but also his tormentor. That “Airline” sketch remains a perfect example of why we loved them. It reminds us that sometimes, the best moments in life aren’t the ones we plan for—they’re the unscripted disasters that leave us gasping for air, laughing until it hurts.