Conan O’Brien may no longer be sitting behind a late-night desk, flipping through cue cards and tossing jokes to a studio audience, but some traditions are simply too stubborn to disappear. Long after the final episode of his television show aired, long after the lights dimmed and the band packed up, one enduring piece of comedy history continues to follow him wherever he goes: Paul Rudd and the inexplicable, unstoppable “Mac and Me” prank.
The latest revival of the long-running gag came on the Dec. 29 episode of Conan O’Brien Needs a Friend, the podcast that has become O’Brien’s creative home in the post–late-night era. Rudd joined the show to promote his new comedy Anaconda, a project that pairs him with Jack Black in a self-aware, comedic spin on the original snake thriller. On the surface, the appearance seemed routine. A movie star stops by to chat, trade jokes, and plug a new film. But for anyone who has followed O’Brien’s career over the last two decades, there was an unspoken understanding that “routine” was never going to be the final destination.
As Rudd began setting up what he claimed was a clip from Anaconda, longtime fans could practically feel the air change. The familiar cadence of a celebrity introduction kicked in, the promise of exclusive footage dangled just long enough to feel plausible, and then, inevitably, the screen filled with that same surreal scene from Mac and Me. The moment has become so iconic that it almost feels timeless: a young boy in a wheelchair rolling down a hill and splashing into water, part of a movie so strange and tonally baffling that it seems tailor-made for absurdist comedy, even if that was never the filmmakers’ intention.
O’Brien’s response was exactly what years of experience have trained him to do. He shook his head, laughed, and surrendered. There was no outrage, no disbelief, just the warm resignation of someone who knows they are trapped in a joke that has outlived formats, platforms, and even entire phases of a career. The prank is no longer about surprise. It’s about inevitability.
During the exchange, O’Brien openly acknowledged this, jokingly asking Rudd whether he secretly hates himself every time he starts one of these fake setups, especially since the audience knows almost immediately what’s coming. The moment Rudd begins to say, “I brought a clip,” the destination is obvious. Rudd didn’t push back. He agreed completely. He admitted that he hates the setup, hates sitting through the clip yet again, and doesn’t even try to trick O’Brien anymore. The effort, he confessed, is minimal at best. At this point, the bit runs on muscle memory and mutual commitment rather than deception.
That honesty is a key part of why the prank still works. Comedy often relies on surprise, but this joke thrives on the absence of it. Everyone involved knows exactly what’s happening, and that shared awareness becomes the punchline. In an entertainment culture that constantly chases the new and the shocking, there’s something oddly refreshing about two performers leaning so hard into repetition that it becomes its own kind of art.
The roots of the prank stretch back to February 2004, when Rudd appeared on Late Night with Conan O’Brien to discuss the then-upcoming series finale of Friends. At the time, the final episode of the sitcom was one of the most anticipated television events of the decade, and Rudd, who had joined the cast late in the show’s run, was part of that excitement. When he claimed to have brought a clip from the finale, the audience leaned in. Instead, they were greeted with the now-infamous Mac and Me scene, a bait-and-switch so unexpected that it instantly cemented itself in late-night lore.
What began as a one-off gag quickly became a recurring ritual. Over the years, Rudd returned to O’Brien’s show again and again, each time ostensibly to promote a new project. The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Role Models, and other films all got the same treatment. The setup never changed. The clip never changed. The joke grew funnier precisely because of its stubborn refusal to evolve.
By the time Rudd reached the peak of the Marvel era with Ant-Man in 2015, the prank had become so well-known that he decided to play with expectations rather than ignore them. He told O’Brien that Marvel had explicitly forbidden him from pulling the stunt again. For a moment, it seemed like the tradition might finally end. Rudd showed a legitimate clip from Ant-Man, offering the audience exactly what they had been promised. Then, as if on cue, the scene transitioned into a version of the Mac and Me clip with Ant-Man digitally inserted into the chaos. Even when O’Brien tried to regain control by promising to show the real, unaltered superhero footage himself, the Mac and Me clip simply played again, doubling down on the absurdity.
The prank survived format changes, career milestones, and even the end of O’Brien’s late-night show in 2021. During the final week of Conan, Rudd managed to squeeze in one last act of mischief. He interrupted an interview between O’Brien and Bill Hader, who were discussing a failed Saturday Night Live sketch involving Rudd. Claiming to have a clip of the sketch, Rudd once again led everyone straight into Mac and Me. It was a perfect sendoff, a reminder that some jokes are too deeply embedded to be retired politely.
What’s perhaps most remarkable is that the gag didn’t end when the show did. When Rudd later brought it back on O’Brien’s podcast, the host seemed genuinely surprised. There was something almost audacious about pulling a visual prank in an audio-focused medium. O’Brien even protested that you “can’t do that on a podcast,” pointing out that it’s a visual joke. That complaint only made the moment funnier, highlighting how the prank has evolved from a simple clip gag into a kind of conceptual joke that transcends logic.
Rudd has explained in the past that the whole idea originated from his discomfort with the performative nature of promoting movies. The ritual of sitting down, smiling politely, and enthusiastically selling a project can feel insincere, especially for someone with Rudd’s laid-back comedic sensibility. Showing a clip from something entirely unrelated was his way of puncturing that expectation, of calling attention to the artificiality of the whole process. Over time, what started as a playful rebellion became a commitment to absurdity for its own sake.
O’Brien has often marveled at the meaninglessness of the prank, and he means that as the highest possible compliment. It doesn’t promote anything. It doesn’t evolve toward a message or a payoff. It exists simply because both men are willing to keep doing it. In a way, it’s performance art disguised as a dumb joke, a decades-long exercise in commitment to something that “means nothing,” as O’Brien once put it.
During the latest podcast episode, O’Brien took the reflection a step further, imagining a future in which he and Rudd are both old men. In this hypothetical scenario, Rudd visits him in a hospital, perhaps carrying news or comfort, only to reveal the Mac and Me clip instead of a medical scan. The image is both hilarious and strangely touching. It suggests that the prank has become a shared language between them, a shorthand for friendship, time, and shared history.
By the end of the episode, O’Brien hinted that he might have an idea to finally take the gag to an entirely new level. He didn’t explain what that might look like, only teasing that there is a scenario that could be truly momentous if they ever manage to pull it off. The fact that he’s even entertaining the idea shows how deeply the prank has woven itself into his creative life. Rather than trying to escape it, he’s considering how to elevate it one last time.
There’s something comforting about the endurance of this joke. In an industry defined by constant reinvention, here is a piece of comedy that refuses to change, refusing even to justify its existence. It doesn’t chase relevance or try to be clever in new ways. It simply shows up, again and again, like an old friend who tells the same story every time you meet and somehow makes it funny anyway.
For fans, the “Mac and Me” prank is more than just a clip. It’s a reminder of a specific era of late-night television, of a time when recurring bits could stretch across years and become part of a host’s identity. It’s also a testament to the chemistry between O’Brien and Rudd, two performers who understand that sometimes the best joke is the one you refuse to let die.
Even without a late-night show, Conan O’Brien remains connected to his past in ways that feel organic rather than nostalgic. The podcast format allows for longer conversations, deeper reflections, and, apparently, the continued resurrection of a joke that should have worn out long ago. Instead, it has only grown more legendary.
As long as Paul Rudd keeps showing up with a promise of a clip, and as long as Conan O’Brien keeps reacting with equal parts dread and delight, the strange little scene from Mac and Me will continue to surface. It may not make sense. It may not have a point. But that, perhaps, is exactly why it has lasted for more than 20 years and shows no signs of stopping.
