What's So Funny?: My Hilarious Life

by Tim Conway

  Epilogue

  Hey, look at the title of this chapter. I can’t believe I’ve already gone through my whole life (to date, at least). I know I’ve reached the stage where a lot of people look back and dream about living their lives over again. Some become obsessed with wishing they’d done things differently. People, including yours truly, can do some mighty dumb things on the way from the cradle to the you-know-what, but that’s what makes one guy’s life different from the other guy’s. In my case, right from that cardboard polo box that Dan made for the infant Toma, I did what I wanted to do. Sure, I wish I could do it all over again, but I can honestly say, I’d do it exactly the same way.

  I’ve always viewed life through Coke bottle lenses. That distortion, that visual twist, brings into focus the things that made me laugh, and, even better, the things I can use to make other people laugh. For me, the world is composed of props. I simply cannot resist them. Most people walk into a room and take an overall view. Are there windows, who’s in the room, where’s the nearest place to sit down, things like that. I walk into a room and right away I’ll look for something usable. It could be a chair, a vase, a curtain, a paperweight, or even a doorknob; whatever it is, I’ll find it. I never met a prop I didn’t like or that I didn’t try to use. I can’t help it; it’s just the way I am. I used to think I was possessed. After writing this book, I know I’m possessed. Why else would I do the things I do? I really owe a debt of gratitude to whoever is watching over me; it can’t be an easy job. My nature is to amuse, and I’ll grab any opportunity to do it.

  While being an entertainer can make you totally happy, it can also completely annoy you. You can spend precious time asking, “Why didn’t I get the part? Why don’t I make the money he makes?” I never asked those questions because I was too busy enjoying my life in the biz.

  I remember the first time I ever saw television. It sure wasn’t at home; very few people we knew, including us, could afford a set. My first TV sighting came courtesy of Ken Shutts. He put a set, rabbit ears and all, in the window of Chagrin Hardware. I parked myself in front of that hardware store window whenever I could, and so did a lot of other people. Usually a small crowd would gather on the sidewalk and watch whatever happened to be broadcast. Often it was the test pattern. There was a communal feeling that went with television viewing especially standing on the sidewalk with your neighbors. Dan finally got a TV when we lived on Orange Street. Just like the radio that preceded it, that twelve-inch box brought the family together. Most homes only had one set and there were only three channels to choose from. Forget downloading, or on demand; you either saw a show or you didn’t. If you wanted to talk about what you saw the night before, you had to watch the broadcast in real time. One of the unwritten laws of television viewing was, thou shalt not call anyone for the duration of The Texaco Star Theater, The Jackie Gleason Show, The Toast of the Town, or any of the other really popular programs. Even if you did telephone someone during the broadcast, no one would answer. I miss watching those worry-free television programs, the kind you could view with the whole family without hearing foul language or seeing too much violence or too much skin. Wow. I sound like an old geezer. Well I am an old geezer, but that doesn’t prevent me from knowing what’s worthwhile viewing and what isn’t.

  Television was the backbone of my performing life. I still can’t get over my good luck in choosing my career. Actually, my career chose me. Growing too big prevented me from being a jockey; the inability to match patterns in wallpaper prevented me from being a paperhanger. Forget delivering papers, that was never going to last; the early hours required prevented me from being a baker. Lack of stamina prevented me from being a track star, and my big mouth kept me from having a military career. Show business was the only thing left. If you’re reading this book you’re one of the people who made, and make, my life so worth living. I love to stand behind the curtain in a theatre waiting to be introduced. I can’t wait to get out onstage to meet all of you in the audience. The instant I walk out I forget my troubles and get happy. It’s such a comfort to be entertaining you. And I love it when you let me know you’re having fun. Laughter has always been what I was after; it’s the key to my career and it’s the key to my life. Believe me, whatever laughs you had were given with great pleasure and much joy.

  Hey, wait a minute! Here I am in the epilogue and I haven’t told you the elephant story yet, and it’s one of the biggest laugh-getters I ever got. It also was one of the few times that I ever completely lost it and the only time I wound up on the floor laughing.

  “The Family” was one of the most popular sketches on The Carol Burnett Show. Carol played Eunice Harper Higgins; Harvey played her husband, Ed; and Vicki played her mother, Mama Harper. Those three characters were the nexus of those sketches. A whole bunch of other characters wandered in and out. I played Mickey Hart, one of those wanderers. Mickey was an employee in Ed’s hardware store and always wore a baseball cap. He also wore an old-fashion hearing aid with a long, oversize wire attached to an amplifier in his pocket, but I don’t remember why.

  In November of the show’s last season, we were taping a Family sketch in which Mickey had dropped by the house and was asked to play a word game with Eunice, Mama, and Ed. Harvey had left the show by then and Dick Van Dyke had taken over. In the sketch, Carol was to look at a card and give me a key word; I was to answer “elephant.” Before the taping started, Joe Hamilton took me aside.

  “Tim,” he said, “the show’s running a little long, so please when Carol gives you the cue, just say elephant, nothing else.”

  I smiled and nodded my head. I knew what Joe was up to. He was politely telling me to stay on script. That’s all I needed to hear.

  I walked onto the set and found Carol and Vicki sitting on a sofa. Dick was draped on one arm of the sofa, and I took my place on the other. Carol held up the card, gave me the cue and, instead of saying “elephant,” I said something like, “Oh, elephants. See uh, there was this elephant that had a dwarf trainer and he used to put a little ballerina skirt on that elephant, and he’d go around dancing. I thought it was so laughable at the time. There was a rumor going around the circus that the dwarf and the elephant were lovers.”

  At this moment Carol buried her face in her hand. She was still clutching the card. Vicki’s head had dropped to one side and Dick was wiggling all over the arm of the sofa. I continued.

  “The elephant squashed him though,” I said after a long pause. “So they had to shoot the elephant.”

  All three of my colleagues were in various stages of suppressed laughter. I didn’t even look at them. I just went on.

  “I don’t know whether it was because of the rumor, but they were buried together. It was a great big tombstone . . .”

  Carol cut me off by whirling around and hitting me with the card, and Joe stopped the taping. Carol, Vicki, and Dick collected themselves and we began again. Carol gave me the cue and this time, instead of saying “elephant,” I said, “I guess it’s not ‘elephants,’ huh?”

  Carol said, “No!”

  And I continued. “I was at a freak show one time ’n I saw two Siamese elephants this circus trainer had. They was uh joined at the end of their trunks. ’N this trainer’d make ’em stand on their back feet with their trunks stretched. Then this little monkey would go out on their trunks and dance a merengue. Those elephants couldn’t trumpet like the other elephants ’cause they were joined at the trunk. All they could do was blow ’n go ‘huh-gnorly.’ One’d see the other’s eyes get real big.

  While I’m embellishing my one-word line, Carol, Vicki, and Dick were struggling to control themselves. Which only made me embellish more. Carol tried to get me on track, but I went on and on about the difficulties of being joined at the trunk and concluded with, “Then one day, one elephant sneezed and blew the other one’s brains out.”

  The audience went wild.

  In a desperate final attempt at restoring order, Carol thrust the white card in front
of Vicki. Her voice trembling, she pleaded, “Go on, Mama.”

  Vicki pulled herself up, slowly turned to Carol, and said calmly, “You sure that little asshole’s through?”

  Guess what, folks. I am.

  Fooled You!

  I don’t care if the Epilogue is supposed to be the end of a book, I’ve got more stories to get off my chest and I’m not leaving till they’re told. Are you surprised? You shouldn’t be. If you’ve been paying attention you know that once I get started, I can’t stop. So sit back, relax, and enjoy (I hope) a bonus look at some random acts of mischief that have brightened my days.

  I’ve already mentioned that I was a pretty good tailor, and this tale illustrates my skill with needle and thread. Ever since Charlene and I moved into our Encino home nearly three decades ago, we’ve given an annual Christmas Eve party for close friends. Our place, a sprawling combination English country house and Western ranch, is great for giving parties. I swear there are rooms I haven’t discovered yet. The Christmas party guest list includes Carol and her family, other people from the Burnett show, and everybody’s kids. (In the past, we entertained good buddies like Harvey Korman, Don Knotts, and Steve Allen. I still miss them.) It’s a fun time, but neither Charlene nor I want it to go on too long. To make sure it doesn’t we set all the clocks ahead by an hour so that everyone’s out by 10 P.M. Charlene cooks most of the food; I assist her. The night before Christmas 1984, I greeted all the guests, served them drinks, and then slipped away. Carol noticed that I was missing, as I knew she would, and after a while, suggested that everyone go and find me, which I also knew would happen. They checked the kitchen, the bedrooms, and then went to my office where the walls were papered in a plaid design, the rage in those days. Without telling anyone, I had purchased material in the same plaid as the wallpaper, and had tailored myself a jacket. After I skipped out on my guests, I put on the jacket and went into my office. I stood with my back up against the wall and spread out my arms, aligning myself with the wallpaper pattern. I knew my pals eventually would get there.

  “Come in,” I called out when the search party finally knocked on the door. They walked into the room and found plaid-jacketed me plastered against the plaid-covered wall. All Carol and the others could see were my head and hands; the rest of my upper torso blended seamlessly into the paper. I’d been standing for quite some time, but it was worth it to see the looks on their faces, and to hear Carol shriek with laughter as only she can shriek. (Charlene took a photo; it’s in the picture section.)

  • • •

  On a Monday evening in the mid-1960s, Ernie Anderson, McLean Stevenson, and I were in the City Slicker, a watering hole near CBS TV City, waiting for the Monday Night Football game to begin. That night the Los Angeles Rams were at home playing the Detroit Lions. The three of us were primed and ready when, suddenly, the screen went blank and a voice announced that the game would not be shown. Even today, if a home game isn’t sold out in advance, it will not be broadcast over the local affiliate. You really can’t blame the football leagues for imposing local blackouts; they want to sell the seats in the stadium. On the other hand, why would you pay to go to a game being held in your city if you could watch it for free on television? Ernie, McLean, and I were bummed. We’d looked forward to seeing the game.

  This is the perfect spot for me to illustrate how I get, and put into action, my ideas. In order for you to follow my precise thinking, I’m going to take you into my brain at the exact moment that I heard the television announcement.

  Newscaster: The Rams game has been blacked out. Stay tuned for the Monday Night Movie.

  Inside Tim Conway’s Brain: Nuts. I want to see that game. What am I going to do? (Jumbled thoughts follow.) Wait. The Rams are playing the Lions. There were three lions in the sketch we just did on TV. That means that three lion costumes are available.

  (We now leave my brain.)

  “Hey guys, I just got an idea,” I cried to Ernie and McLean. “What if we went over to the studio costume department and got those lion costumes from the sketch? We could go to the stadium and say that we’re three mascots from Detroit.”

  Ernie and McLean were all for it, although I have to add if you’ve been at the City Slicker for a while, a preposterous plan like that might seem more plausible than if it were presented cold. We finished our drinks, paid the tab, and returned to the CBS studio. We went to the wardrobe room, took out the three lion outfits, and hit the road. On the way to the stadium we stopped at a diner, went into the men’s room, and changed into the lion suits. It was a little cramped for three costume changes, but we managed to get them on. I wondered what the diner customers would think after watching three guys walk into the toilet and then see three lions walking out. No one looked twice, a phenomenon that could only take place in two cities, Los Angeles and New York. The three of us piled into the car and drove down the 101 to the Coliseum. I was at the wheel. I wondered what others, this time on the highway, might think upon seeing three lions driving along with them. Again, no one seemed to notice. As for the journey, I’ll only say that it’s not easy to drive a car with paws.

  Our plan was to go to the stadium tunnel entrance. If we were questioned, we’d tell them we were the Detroit mascots. If they didn’t let us in, then we’d gun the car and drive down the tunnel. I pulled up to the entrance, and a guard came over. I rolled down the window and said, “We’re the lions.”

  “Right,” said the guard, “we’ve been expecting you. Park over there, then go down the tunnel, and wait in the room with the band.”

  We were dumfounded. Why was he expecting us? Why didn’t he question us? Little did we know that the San Diego Zoo had been asked to send up some caged lions for the halftime show. Apparently, the guard had been told to expect lions, but he didn’t know whether they were real or not. I didn’t ask any questions; I just did what he said and pulled the car over. The three of us got out, waddled down the tunnel, and went into the room already occupied by the USC band. We took seats along the wall and waited for instructions. A guy came in and announced that the band would be playing at halftime and that he’d come back closer to the performance to get them organized. I looked at the lion to my left and he looked at the lion to his left. We all had the same thought. Why should we miss the first half? We got up and walked out of the room. We huddled near the door and decided to continue down the tunnel. Soon we were at the entrance to the football field. The Detroit team was gathered there waiting to run onto the field. The three of us sauntered over and joined the group. The Lions looked at the lions; one of them, Alex Karras, came over to us.

  “What are you guys supposed to be?” he asked.

  By a stroke of luck, Ernie knew Alex.

  “It’s Ernie Anderson in here,” he said. “And these are my friends Tim Conway and McLean Stevenson.”

  We shook hands and paws as Ernie told the Lions’ defensive tackle what we were up to.

  “You guys are nuts,” Karras said laughing. “But hold on a minute.”

  He walked over to his teammates, told them who we were and why we were there. The Lions thought it was a hoot. They insisted that we come out on the field with them. We didn’t argue. What better place to watch the game?

  “Sports fans, let’s welcome the Detroit Lions!” blared the voice from the loudspeaker. With the crowd’s cheers and jeers ringing in our ears, we costumed lions led the playing Lions onto the field.

  After our entrance, Ernie, McLean, and I went over to the side where we expected to watch the game. Unfortunately the fans seated in the section behind us couldn’t see over our outsized lion heads. They complained to the ushers, one of whom leaned over the rail and told us that we’d have to lie down or get off the field. We weren’t about to leave, so we got down on our bellies and watched. It was an exceptionally warm evening and the temperature inside the lion outfits was somewhere in the high nineties. Plus, our elbows ached from supporting our heads. In the middle of the second quarter, we decided that we�
�d had enough. Putting our tails behind us, we left the stadium and returned to the City Slicker where we spent the rest of the evening musing on our dumb luck. I’ve been fortunate to have happenstance on my side on many occasions; that Monday night was one of them. I still don’t know if the San Diego Zoo lions ever got there.

  • • •

  I was eating in a restaurant when a lady came over to my table and asked for an autograph. She handed me a paper napkin indicating where I should sign. I wrote my name and handed the napkin back to her. She took a look and said, “I can’t read this.”

  “But,” I answered, “that’s the way I sign my name. That’s the charm of an autograph.”

  “Well,” she replied indignantly, “Nobody’s going to believe it’s you. You can’t read this thing.”

  Usually, I cut people slack when they’re nice enough to ask me for an autograph, even when I’m eating. But this lady was terribly aggressive, and it got to me.

  “I tell you what,” I said. “You give me back the napkin, and give me your name and address. I’ll go home and type my name and send it to you.” She did just that. She returned the autographed napkin and gave me her name and address. When I got home, I typed “Tim Conway” on a piece of paper and sent it back to her, just the paper, not the napkin. I only wish I could have been around when she showed her chums my autograph.

  • • •

  One evening in the early ’80s I went to a party at Ernie Anderson’s. A lot of people from The Carol Burnett Show were already there, including Harvey, a few of the writers, and a group of regulars, dancers, and singers. At some point, I believe it was after I visited the punchbowl, I got a flash, an entire scenario popped into my brain. I had no choice but to enact it. I went into the bathroom and took a roll of toilet paper from underneath the sink. I opened the roll and wrapped the paper around my head until it was completely covered except for slits that I left for my eyes and my mouth. I looked like a mummy, but I could breathe, eat, and drink. I went back into the living room, got a glass of punch, and sat down on the couch. I was seated there, sipping punch and chatting with one of the dancers from the show, when Carol and Joe arrived. By that time everyone at the party was comfortable with my getup and treating me quite normally. Carol took one look and started shrieking. But I wasn’t doing this to get a rise out of Carol. I was doing it for myself and it was just the beginning.