I was listening to a podcast interview recently featuring the legendary Alan Alda, and the conversation drifted into some fascinating, unexpected territory.

The host was asking about the unique kind of fame that came with starring in a television juggernaut during an era when everyone watched the exact same programs.

Then, the host asked a very specific, unexpected question.

He wanted to know if the fans ever took the storylines a little too seriously, or if the actors ever faced real world backlash for the things their characters did on screen.

Alan smiled, a warm expression that immediately signaled a great story was about to unfold.

He didn’t talk about his own experiences playing the beloved lead doctor.

Instead, he brought up his dear friend and former co-star, the late Larry Linville.

For those who might not know the intricate details of the cast, Larry played Major Frank Burns, the cowardly, whining, absolutely insufferable antagonist of the surgical camp.

But as Alan affectionately pointed out, the real Larry Linville was the absolute polar opposite of the character he portrayed.

He was arguably the sweetest, most cultured, and gentlest man on the entire television lot.

He was a classically trained actor, soft-spoken, incredibly polite, and endlessly kind to everyone around him.

But he played the camp weasel so perfectly, with such brilliant comedic timing, that the television audience viscerally hated Frank Burns.

Alan painted a vivid picture for the listeners.

It was the height of the show’s massive popularity in the nineteen seventies.

Larry was enjoying a rare day off, far away from the muddy soundstages and the relentless shooting schedule.

There were no green surgical masks, no heavy army fatigues, and no cameras rolling.

He was just running mundane errands in a regular, brightly lit department store in Los Angeles.

Usually, when famous actors are approached in public spaces, the interaction follows a predictable script.

There is a polite tap on the shoulder, a nervous smile, and a quiet request for an autograph.

Larry was accustomed to getting suspicious glares from people who couldn’t quite separate reality from fiction, but he would always just smile politely.

But on this particular afternoon, a stern, very serious older woman spotted him from across the aisle.

She didn’t look excited to meet a celebrity.

She looked downright furious.

She didn’t want an autograph, and she certainly didn’t want to shake his hand.

She marched right up to him with a very clear, vindictive mission in mind.

And that is when it happened.

She hauled off and hit him right over the head with her heavy purse.

Alan laughed out loud into the podcast microphone just recalling the sheer absurdity of the moment.

He wiped a tear from his eye as he continued the story.

Larry was completely stunned by the sudden impact.

He stood there in the middle of a quiet department store, a gentle, sophisticated man, being physically assaulted by a furious grandmother holding a handbag.

The woman didn’t just hit him and run away, either.

She stood her ground and started loudly scolding him right there in the aisle, completely shattering the peaceful atmosphere of the store.

She pointed a finger at him and yelled at him to leave that nice Hawkeye alone.

She told him he was a terrible, incompetent doctor, a genuinely bad man, and that he should be deeply ashamed of how he treated the good people in the camp.

Larry, ever the absolute gentleman, did not lose his temper or raise his voice.

He didn’t yell back, cause a scene, or run off to call for store security.

Instead, he tried to politely defuse the bizarre situation.

He put his hands up defensively and tried to explain that it was just a fictional television program.

He gently told the angry woman his name was Larry, that he was just an actor memorizing lines, and that he actually liked Alan Alda very much in real life.

He tried to assure her that they were actually great friends behind the scenes.

But the woman simply refused to hear a single word of his explanation.

In her mind, she had finally cornered the cowardly Frank Burns, and she was going to personally deliver the justice he so richly deserved.

She gave him one more piece of her mind, leveled a final, scathing glare in his direction, and confidently stormed off down the aisle.

She left poor Larry standing alone next to a display of household goods, rubbing his head and trying to process what had just occurred.

But the true comedy of the situation didn’t fully materialize until the following morning.

Larry drove back to the studio lot, parked his car, and walked into the rehearsal room where the rest of the cast was gathering with their morning coffee.

He sat down in his chair, still looking a bit bewildered by the whole ordeal, and recounted the entire department store ambush to his castmates.

He expected a little bit of sympathy from his peers.

He expected his friends to be shocked and appalled by the public encounter.

Instead, the entire room erupted into absolutely hysterical laughter.

Alan recalled that Wayne Rogers was practically howling out loud, gripping his sides, and the rest of the cast couldn’t even breathe because they were laughing so incredibly hard.

Nobody felt sorry for him in the slightest.

They all realized that Larry was doing such a phenomenal, convincing job playing this miserable character that he was now risking actual bodily harm in his everyday life.

The incident immediately escalated into a massive, unstoppable running joke on the set.

For weeks and months afterward, the cast and crew absolutely refused to let Larry forget about his dramatic encounter in the department store.

Whenever he announced he was leaving the studio lot to grab lunch or run a quick errand, someone from the crew would inevitably shout a warning across the stage.

They would tell him to keep his head on a swivel in the parking lot and always check his blind spots.

They would loudly remind him to watch out for elderly women carrying large handbags.

Even during rehearsals, if Larry was pacing around the set trying to remember a line, a fellow actor would occasionally pretend to swing an imaginary purse at his head just to get a rise out of him.

It became a legendary piece of behind the scenes lore that brought the cast closer together.

The director would sometimes joke that if Larry didn’t nail a difficult take, they were going to track down the lady with the purse and bring her onto the soundstage to motivate him.

Through it all, Larry took the endless teasing with incredible grace and his signature good humor.

He understood the deep, wonderful irony of the situation better than anyone else in the room.

He had essentially achieved the ultimate compliment a character actor could ever hope to receive.

His performance was so authentic, so perfectly grating, and so believable that a casual viewer completely suspended their disbelief and decided to take matters into her own hands.

Alan spoke of Larry with such profound fondness and respect during the interview.

He noted that you have to be a truly wonderful, emotionally secure human being to play a terrible person that convincingly week after week.

The long hours on set were often grueling, and laughter was the only reliable survival mechanism the cast had to get through the day.

The memory of their kindest castmate having to defend himself against a furious shopper perfectly encapsulated the surreal, magical experience of making that iconic television show.

It remains a beautiful testament to the power of television and the absolute brilliance of a man who never minded being the punchline.

Looking back at classic television history, who is a villain or antagonist that you absolutely loved to hate?