**Title: **
The set was a dentist’s office, but it looked more like a torture chamber designed by a comedy writer. A white examination chair sat in the center of the room, its leather cracked and worn. A tray of silver instruments gleamed under the fluorescent lights. A small sink gurgled in the corner. And behind the chair, a diploma hung on the wall—a fake diploma, of course, with a name that no one bothered to read.
Harvey Korman sat in the chair, his hands gripping the armrests, his face already tight with apprehension. He was playing Mr. Slesinger, a man with a toothache and a growing suspicion that he had made a terrible mistake. He had come to this dentist because he was in pain. He had stayed because he was desperate. And now, as he watched Tim Conway shuffle into the room, he was beginning to realize that the pain in his tooth was nothing compared to the pain of sitting through this appointment.
Tim Conway was dressed in a white coat that was too big for him, a pair of glasses that magnified his eyes into wide, innocent circles, and a surgical mask that hung loosely around his neck. He carried a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other, and he looked at Harvey as if he had never seen a patient before.
“Hello,” Conway said. “I’m Dr. Keefer.”
Harvey nodded. “I’m here about my tooth.”
“Yes. Your tooth.”
Conway looked at the clipboard. He looked at Harvey. He looked at the clipboard again.
“Which tooth?” he asked.
“The one that hurts.”
“They all hurt?”
“No. Just one.”
“Which one?”
Harvey pointed to his mouth. “The one in the back. On the left.”
Conway nodded. He wrote something down. He wrote it very slowly. Each letter was formed with the care of a man carving stone.
Harvey shifted in his chair. “Is something wrong?”
“No. I’m just making a note.”
“What kind of note?”
“A note about your tooth.”
“Can we get started?”
Conway looked up. He looked at Harvey. He looked at the tray of instruments. He looked back at Harvey.
“Of course,” he said. “We can get started.”
He did not move.
—
**The Instruments**
The first disaster was the search for the right tool.
Conway walked to the instrument tray. He picked up a scaler. He examined it. He put it down. He picked up a probe. He examined it. He put it down. He picked up a pair of forceps. He examined them. He put them down.
Harvey watched him. “Is there a problem?”
“No,” Conway said. “I’m just looking for the right instrument.”
“What instrument do you need?”
“The one for the tooth.”
“Which one?”
“The one that hurts.”
“That’s not an instrument. That’s my tooth.”
Conway nodded. He picked up a mirror. He held it up to the light. He examined it. He put it down.
“This will do,” he said.
He walked to Harvey. He held up the mirror. He opened Harvey’s mouth. He looked inside.
“Hmm,” he said.
“What?” Harvey asked.
“Your tooth is very far back.”
“I know.”
“It’s hard to see.”
“I know.”
“I’ll need to get closer.”
Conway leaned in. He leaned in very slowly. He leaned in so slowly that the audience began to laugh before he even got close. Harvey’s eyes widened. He gripped the armrests tighter. Conway’s face was inches from his own, the mirror still in his hand, his breath warm on Harvey’s cheek.
“Is this close enough?” Conway asked.
“Yes,” Harvey said. “That’s close enough.”
“I can’t see.”
“You’re right there.”
“I need to be closer.”
“You can’t be closer. You’re already in my mouth.”
Conway pulled back. He looked at the mirror. He looked at Harvey.
“I’ll need the drill,” he said.
**The Novocaine**
The second disaster was the Novocaine.
Conway picked up the syringe. He held it up to the light. He examined it. He put it down. He picked it up again. He looked at Harvey.
“This will numb the area,” he said.
“Good,” Harvey said. “Please. Numb the area.”
Conway leaned in. He held the syringe near Harvey’s mouth. He paused. He looked at the syringe. He looked at Harvey.
“I’ve never done this before,” he said.
“You’ve never done this before?”
“Not on a person.”
“What have you done it on?”
“A dog.”
“A dog?”
“A very large dog.”
Harvey closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. He opened his eyes. Conway was still there, still holding the syringe, still waiting.
“Just do it,” Harvey said.
Conway nodded. He leaned in. He pressed the needle against Harvey’s gum. He paused. He pressed again. He paused again.
And then he injected himself.
The audience gasped. Harvey’s eyes went wide. Conway looked down at his hand. The syringe was sticking out of his palm. He pulled it out. He looked at it. He looked at Harvey.
“That’s not supposed to happen,” he said.
“Are you okay?” Harvey asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Your hand is numb.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s hanging limp.”
Conway looked at his hand. It was hanging limp. He lifted it with his other hand. He positioned it on the tray. He looked at Harvey.
“We can continue,” he said.
“You can’t continue. Your hand is numb.”
“I have another hand.”
“You can’t do dental work with one hand.”
“I can try.”
—
**The Slow Collapse**
The third disaster was the slow collapse of Conway’s body.
The Novocaine spread. His hand went numb. Then his wrist. Then his arm. Then his leg. He stumbled. He caught himself. He kept moving. He picked up the drill with his one working hand. He approached Harvey. He leaned in. He paused.
“I’m going to drill now,” he said.
“No,” Harvey said. “You’re not.”
“I have to.”
“You can’t.”
“I have to.”
“Your hand is numb.”
“I have another hand.”
“You can’t use the drill with one hand.”
“I can try.”
Harvey turned to the audience. His face was a mask of disbelief. The audience was laughing so hard that some of them were wiping tears from their eyes. Conway, meanwhile, was trying to position the drill with his one working hand. He dropped it. He picked it up. He dropped it again. He picked it up again. He looked at Harvey.
“I’ll need a moment,” he said.
—
**The Break**
Harvey Korman could not take it anymore.
He turned away from Conway. He looked at the wall. He bit his lip. He tried to think of something sad. Nothing worked. He looked back at Conway. Conway was still there, still holding the drill, still trying to position it with his one working hand.
Harvey’s shoulders began to shake. He covered his mouth with his hand. He closed his eyes. But it was too late.
He laughed.
It was not a small laugh. It was a full, genuine, uncontrollable laugh that echoed through the dentist’s office. The audience cheered. Conway turned off the drill. He looked at Harvey with an expression of mild concern.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
Harvey could not answer. He was bent over, his hands on his knees, laughing too hard to speak.
Conway walked back to the tray. He set down the drill. He picked up the clipboard. He wrote something down. He looked at the audience. He shrugged.
“I guess we’ll try again tomorrow,” he said.
The audience roared. The sketch was over. The curtain fell.
—
**The Lesson**
The genius of the sketch was not the Novocaine. It was the waiting.
Tim Conway understood something that few comedians ever master. He understood that anticipation can be funnier than the punchline. He understood that a pause can be a joke. He understood that the slowest man in the room can be the funniest man in the room.
Harvey Korman understood something too. He understood that the hardest job in comedy is not making the audience laugh. It is keeping a straight face while someone else makes them laugh.
Together, they created something unforgettable.
One dentist. One patient. One syringe. One numb hand.
And a room full of people laughing at a man who was trying to do his job but could not stop injecting himself with Novocaine.
That was the Dentist. That was Tim Conway. And that was the magic of *The Carol Burnett Show*.
—
**The End**
