For years, audiences believed the magic of The Carol Burnett Show was carefully crafted — brilliant writing, polished rehearsals, and impeccable timing. But according to Carol Burnett herself, some of the most unforgettable moments in television comedy weren’t planned at all.
They were acts of beautiful, deliberate sabotage.
Behind the curtain of one of America’s most beloved variety programs, a silent war was unfolding — not of ego or rivalry, but of laughter. At the center of it stood two men: Harvey Korman, the dignified master of composure, and Tim Conway, the calm assassin of that composure.
And according to Burnett, Conway had a mission.
Destroy Harvey Korman — gently, lovingly, and hilariously.
A Comedy Institution Is Born
When The Carol Burnett Show premiered in 1967, few could predict it would become one of the most celebrated sketch comedy programs in television history. Airing for 11 seasons, the series blended sharp parody, musical performances, and character-driven absurdity in a way no other show quite managed.
But Burnett knew from the beginning that success required a certain balance.
She once recalled seeing Korman perform on The Danny Kaye Show and immediately recognizing what he could bring: structure, poise, and a kind of elegant absurdity. In her words, she needed “a Harvey Korman” the way comedy legend Sid Caesar needed Carl Reiner — a stabilizing genius who could anchor chaos with absolute conviction.
When she encountered Korman in the CBS parking lot, she didn’t hesitate. She recruited him on the spot.
It was a decision that would help shape television history.
Enter the Wild Card
Tim Conway, however, was an entirely different force.
Burnett had noticed him stealing scenes on McHale’s Navy and during appearances on The Gary Moore Show. There was something about Conway’s unassuming demeanor — the slow blinks, the innocent pauses — that concealed a razor-sharp comedic instinct.
Initially appearing only as a guest, Conway floated in and out of the show for years. But by Season 9, Burnett and her team made the inevitable decision: make him permanent.
That was when the true experiment began.
Because once Conway became a regular, he made a quiet promise to himself — one that would change the dynamic of the entire cast.
He would break Harvey Korman.
The Dentist Sketch: A Declaration of War
If there was a single moment that cemented this comedic rivalry, it was the now-legendary “Dentist” sketch.
The premise was simple: Korman played a nervous patient, and Conway portrayed a newly graduated dentist attempting his first procedure. On paper, it was funny.
In execution, it became historic.
Conway began administering Novocain — not just to his patient, but to himself. He injected his hip. Then his hand. Then his leg. Limb by limb, his body went slack in absurd ways no rehearsal had prepared anyone for.
None of it was scripted.
Korman tried — heroically — to maintain composure. But as Conway’s limbs collapsed one by one, so did Harvey. Tears streamed down his face. His shoulders shook. His carefully constructed dignity disintegrated in front of a roaring audience.
The studio erupted. Crew members struggled to remain quiet. Even Burnett herself found it nearly impossible to stay in character.
And Conway?
He remained serene — like a monk performing chaos with perfect discipline.
The Secret Strategy
According to Burnett, Conway’s genius lay in his patience.
During rehearsals, he behaved flawlessly. He delivered every line exactly as written. He hit every beat. He gave nothing away.
Then, once the cameras rolled and the director confirmed they had what they needed, Conway would quietly unleash something entirely new.
An extra pause.
An unexpected word.
A physical gag no one saw coming.
“And that,” Burnett later admitted, “was always gold.”
Korman, unable to anticipate the shift, became the perfect foil. His reactions weren’t forced. They were real. The laughter wasn’t acting — it was survival.
Not Rivalry — But Trust
From the outside, it looked like torment.
From the inside, it was devotion.
Burnett has repeatedly emphasized that Conway and Korman adored one another. There was no jealousy, no resentment. Korman understood the game — even if he couldn’t win it.
After the show ended in 1978, the two men toured together for years, performing live shows that recreated their on-screen dynamic. Audiences flocked not just to see the jokes, but to witness the inevitable: Harvey Korman trying — and failing — to keep a straight face.
It became ritual.
Korman would begin with confidence.
Conway would wait.
And somewhere, inevitably, composure would collapse.
Why Their Comedy Still Matters
In an era increasingly dominated by tightly scripted humor and carefully edited performances, the magic of Conway and Korman feels almost rebellious.
What made their partnership extraordinary wasn’t just timing — it was trust. Trust that if one leapt into absurdity, the other would follow. Trust that breaking character wouldn’t break the show — it would elevate it.
Their dynamic reminds us that some of comedy’s greatest moments happen in the margins — in the unscripted spaces between preparation and surprise.
And perhaps that’s why those sketches remain timeless.
Because viewers weren’t just watching characters.
They were watching human beings lose control in the most joyful way possible.
A Legacy of Laughter
When Tim Conway passed away in 2019 at age 85, tributes poured in from across the entertainment world. But few captured his spirit better than Burnett’s reflections: gentle mischief wrapped in discipline, chaos delivered with absolute calm.
Harvey Korman, who passed in 2008, will forever be remembered not just for his impeccable timing, but for his willingness to surrender to laughter — even when it overtook him completely.
Together, they created something rare:
A comedy duo where the joke wasn’t just written.
It was lived.
And somewhere, in the echo of every replayed “Dentist” sketch, you can still feel it — the moment Conway pauses… Korman braces… and the audience knows exactly what’s about to happen.
The battle begins again.
And laughter wins.