**Title: **

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The set was a dentist’s office. Not a real one, of course—this was *The Carol Burnett Show*, and nothing on that stage was ever real. But it was convincing enough: a white examination chair, a tray of silver instruments, a fluorescent light that hummed with a faint, clinical buzz. The audience was seated, the cameras were ready, and the cue cards were in place. Everything was set for another sketch.

But Tim Conway never followed the script. Not really. He followed the laugh.

The sketch was called “The Dentist.” It aired in Season 2, Episode 20, in 1969, but it would be remembered for decades—not because of its clever dialogue or its tight structure, but because of what happened when one actor decided to take his time.

Conway played Dr. Keefer, a newly graduated dentist on his first day on the job. Harvey Korman played Mr. Slesinger, an unfortunate man with a painful toothache and no idea that his dentist was more terrified than he was. The premise was simple: a patient needs help, the dentist has no confidence, and the treatment goes horribly wrong. But the execution was anything but simple.

From the moment Conway walked on stage, the audience knew something was off. He moved slowly, deliberately, as if he were still figuring out how his own body worked. He introduced himself to Korman with a nervous smile and a handshake that lasted a beat too long. Then he sat down, opened a drawer, and began searching for instruments as though he had never seen them before.

Korman’s character was already in pain. He had come in with a toothache. He had expected a professional. Instead, he got a man who looked like he was assembling furniture without the instructions.

“I’m Dr. Keefer,” Conway said. “I’ll be your dentist today.”

Korman stared at him. “You’ll be my dentist?”

“Yes. I just graduated.”

“You just graduated?”

“Yes. You’re my first patient.”

The audience laughed. Korman’s face twisted. He was supposed to be a nervous patient, but the line between character and actor was already blurring. He looked at Conway with a mixture of terror and disbelief. He looked at the audience as if to say, *Can you believe this?*

Conway, meanwhile, was perfectly calm. He explained that he had not been the best student. He had struggled with fillings and extractions. But cleaning—cleaning was his specialty. He was very good at cleaning. The tooth might still hurt, but it would look wonderful.

Korman’s character chose the cleaning. It was the only option. Even an incompetent dentist was better than no dentist on a Sunday.

Then Conway mentioned the animals.

“Animals?” Korman asked.

“Yes,” Conway said. “Much of my practical work involved animals. Dogs, mostly. Cats. A few rabbits.”

The audience roared. Korman’s face went pale. He was not a dog. He was not a cat. He was a grown man in a dental chair, and his dentist had just admitted that his only experience was with pets.

Conway did not rush the joke. He let it sit. He let Korman absorb it. He let the audience anticipate what was coming next.

Then he picked up the Novocaine needle.

**The Accident**

The needle was supposed to numb the patient. Conway held it up, examined it, and turned toward Korman. He was about to inject the Novocaine into the patient’s gum.

But his hand slipped.

The needle went into his own hand.

The audience gasped. Korman’s eyes went wide. Conway looked down at his hand. He did not scream. He did not jump. He did not announce the mistake.

He simply tried to continue.

That was the genius of Tim Conway. He did not play the accident for a quick laugh. He played it for the slow, creeping realization that the dentist was losing control of his own body.

At first, the hand merely felt strange. Conway flexed his fingers. He shook his wrist. He tried to pick up the needle again. But his fingers would not cooperate. They hung limply at his side.

Then the wrist began to droop. Then the arm. Then the entire side of his body.

Conway lifted his useless arm with his other hand and positioned it on the tray. He tried to walk toward Korman. His leg gave way. He stumbled, caught himself, and kept moving.

Korman was supposed to be a frightened patient. But he was also a human being sitting inches away from one of the funniest performances of his career. He lowered his face. He turned away. His shoulders shook. He bit his lip. He tried to think of something sad. Nothing worked.

The audience was howling. They could see Korman breaking. They could see Conway refusing to break. And they could see the sketch falling apart in the most wonderful way possible.

Conway kept going. He picked up a dental tool with his one working hand. He approached Korman. He tried to speak. His mouth was beginning to numb. His words came out slurred.

“I’m—I’m going to—going to clean—clean your teeth,” he said.

Korman lost it.

He covered his face with his hands. He turned away. He laughed—a full, genuine, uncontrollable laugh that cut through the scene like a knife.

The audience cheered. Conway finally allowed himself a small smile. The sketch was ruined. Or was it?

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**The Legend**

The producers kept the take.

When the episode aired, the break became the highlight. Audiences loved it. They loved seeing the actors—the professionals they admired—lose control. They loved the humanity of it. They loved the reminder that even after years of performing together, these two men could still make each other laugh.

Betty White later recalled the sketch. She said the breakups between Conway and Korman were never staged. They were real. And the dentist routine—with Conway’s useless hand and Korman’s desperate attempts to keep a straight face—was one of the funniest things she had ever seen.

“I still laugh just thinking about it,” she said.

**The Lesson**

There are comedy sketches built around clever dialogue. There are sketches remembered for one perfect physical gag.

And then there is Tim Conway’s *The Dentist*—a sketch where a nervous rookie, an increasingly terrified patient, and one accidental Novocaine injection create a scene that feels as though it could collapse at any second.

Conway never rushes the joke. He lets the disaster travel slowly from one useless hand to the rest of the dentist’s body, while Harvey Korman struggles to remain a believable patient instead of becoming another member of the laughing audience.

And that struggle is where the sketch becomes unforgettable.

One frightened patient. One dangerously inexperienced dentist. One Novocaine needle in the wrong hand. And a performance Harvey Korman could barely endure without laughing.

That is the legacy of *The Dentist*. Not the dialogue. Not the props. Not the set.

The laughter.

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**The End**