The microphones were settled, the levels were checked, and I was just sitting there in the studio, ready to talk about the old days.

The host leaned in, looking at a grainy production still on his tablet, and asked a question I hadn’t heard in at least a decade.

He wanted to know about the logistics of being the only man in television history who spent more time in a corset than most Victorian actresses.

I had to laugh because people always ask if the dresses were itchy or if I liked the heels, but they rarely ask about the physics of the thing.

When you’re filming MAS*H out at the Fox Ranch in Malibu, you aren’t on a nice, level soundstage with air conditioning.

You are in the dirt, in the heat, surrounded by hills that seem to trap the dust and the exhaust from the old olive-drab vehicles.

I remembered one specific morning during the filming of the episode “Major Topper,” back in the sixth season.

The writers had decided that Klinger needed to go full Scarlett O’Hara, and the wardrobe department had outdone themselves.

They handed me this massive, white, tiered hoop skirt that must have been six feet wide at the base.

It was beautiful, in a ridiculous sort of way, but it was also essentially a giant, spring-loaded tent attached to my waist.

We were losing light, which is the most stressful thing that can happen on a set, and the director was shouting for us to get into position.

The scene called for me to make a quick exit in a jeep, which sounds simple enough until you realize the jeep wasn’t designed for 19th-century southern belles.

I was standing there, the wind catching the fabric like a sail, and the crew was scrambling to set the reflectors.

The tension was thick because we only had about ten minutes before the sun dipped behind the mountains and the shot was ruined.

Everyone was dead silent, watching me approach the vehicle in this towering mountain of lace.

The moment I tried to step into that jeep, the laws of physics decided to stage a protest against the Korean War.

I put my foot on the running board and shifted my weight, expecting the skirt to just fold down like a normal piece of clothing.

Instead, the metal hoops inside the fabric acted like a giant coiled spring.

The second my backside hit the seat, the entire front of the dress didn’t just tuck in; it flipped straight up with the force of a beach umbrella opening in a gale.

Suddenly, I wasn’t an actor in a jeep anymore; I was a pair of hairy legs and combat boots sticking out from under a white silk volcano.

The dress had completely inverted, covering my entire face and the steering wheel, and pinning my arms against my sides.

I was effectively buried alive inside my own costume, struggling like a cat in a sack, while the hoop wire pressed against my throat.

There was a half-second of stunned silence where you could have heard a pin drop on the dusty road.

Then, it happened.

It started with a single snort from the camera operator, a guy who had seen everything, but this was too much even for him.

Within three seconds, the entire set erupted into a kind of chaotic, wheezing laughter that I hadn’t heard in years of filming.

Alan Alda was doubled over, clutching a prop clipboard, literally unable to breathe or speak.

The director, who had been so worried about the “golden hour” light, just dropped his megaphone into the dirt and covered his eyes with both hands.

I was still trapped inside the white abyss, muffled voices calling out to see if I was still alive in there.

Every time I tried to push the fabric down, the hoop would snap back up and hit me in the chin, which only made the crew laugh harder.

One of the lighting guys actually had to sit down on the bumper of a truck because his legs gave out from laughing so hard.

The camera started shaking visibly because the man behind it was vibrating with hysterics, completely ruining the frame.

We had to stop everything.

The production came to a grinding halt because there is no way to film a serious comedic beat when your lead character is being eaten by a wedding dress.

It took three wardrobe assistants and a very brave grip to reach in and manually fold the hoops down so I could emerge.

When my head finally popped out from the lace, I looked over at the director and just said, “I think we’re going to need a bigger jeep.”

That sent everyone off again for another five minutes.

We missed the light that day, and we had to come back the next morning to finish the shot, which was a huge deal back then.

Usually, the producers would be furious about a delay like that, but nobody could even look at the “Scarlett” dress without starting to giggle.

The crew started calling it “The Klinger Trap” for the rest of the week.

Whenever I think about that show, I don’t think about the awards or the ratings first.

I think about the sheer absurdity of being a grown man, standing in the middle of a simulated war zone, being defeated by a piece of wire and some chiffon.

It was a reminder that even in a show about the heaviness of war, we were all just a bunch of people trying to make each other laugh in the mud.

That dress eventually went into storage, and I think it’s in a museum now, looking all dignified and historical.

But every time I see a picture of it, I can still feel that hoop snapping up and hitting me in the jaw.

I suppose that’s the price you pay for fashion, especially when you’re trying to get a Section 8.

It was one of those rare moments where the blooper was better than the script could ever hope to be.

If you had been there, watching a man disappear into a cloud of white lace, would you have been able to keep the camera steady?

Do you have a favorite Klinger outfit that you think was even more ridiculous than the Scarlett O’Hara dress?