The script for the Airline sketch was deliberately modest. Captain Tim Conway was meant to calmly inform his increasingly nervous passenger, played by Harvey Korman, that the plane was experiencing engine trouble. A straightforward setup. A predictable payoff. But Tim Conway never cared much for predictability.
Instead of delivering his lines, he leaned into the microphone and began speaking in what can only be described as pure chaos—mimicking a malfunctioning intercom using nothing but his own throat. Static crackles. Warped buzzes. High-pitched squeals. Garbled syllables that sounded like language dissolving midair. None of it was written. None of it was expected. And all of it was lethal.
Harvey Korman, strapped into his seat, was no longer acting frightened by the “turbulence.” He was fighting for his life. His shoulders trembled. His eyes flooded. His mouth twisted into that unmistakable expression of a man trying—desperately—not to laugh on live television. Tim noticed instantly. That was the mistake. Sensing blood in the water, Conway leaned even closer to the mic, stretched the nonsense just a beat longer, then unleashed one final, absurd sound that obliterated whatever composure Harvey had left.
Korman collapsed, wheezing, pounding the armrest, utterly defeated. The audience roared. The crew nearly lost control of the broadcast. And Tim, stone-faced and innocent as ever, flew the sketch straight into comedy legend.
It was never about the joke. It was about timing, instinct, and Conway’s merciless joy in watching his scene partner unravel. In those moments, The Carol Burnett Show wasn’t just scripted television—it was a high-wire act, and Tim Conway had no intention of installing a safety net.
