Harvey Korman once confessed that the scariest thing about working with Tim Conway was very simple and very terrifying. Tim did not care about rehearsal. At all. Rehearsal was more of a loose rumor.

That one fact explains an alarming amount of classic TV comedy.

On paper, everything was safe. The sketch was rehearsed. The beats were clear. The timing was locked in. Harvey Korman was a pro. Precise. Polished. Prepared. The script was his safety net.

Tim Conway brought scissors.

The scene would start perfectly. Same lines. Same rhythm. Same comfort zone. Harvey would settle in, knowing exactly where the laughs lived. And then Tim would gently drop a sentence that had no connection to reality, logic, or this dimension.

Not loud.
Not flashy.
Just quietly unhinged.

You can actually watch Harvey process it. His eyes blink like his brain just tripped over a cord. His mouth tightens. There’s a pause where you can see him think, Nope. This is not happening. Then the swallow. Then the laugh. That laugh wasn’t comedy. That was a man realizing there is no escape hatch.

From that moment on, it wasn’t a sketch. It was survival.

Harvey wasn’t laughing because the line was funny. He was laughing because every trained response had failed him and laughter was the only move left. The audience felt it instantly. This wasn’t planned. This was live, dangerous, beautiful chaos.

That’s why those clips still work decades later. Not because of clever jokes. But because you’re watching one comedic genius calmly wreck the plan and another genius try to stay upright while the floor disappears.

Comedy gold. Or as Harvey probably called it… Tuesday.