Tim Conway’s funniest sketches where every expert was useless. The chair nobody wants. Picture the one chair where you never want a stranger holding the needle. The dentist’s chair. You lean back, you open your mouth, and you hand a person you barely know complete power over your face. It only works because you trust that the man in the white coat knows exactly what he’s doing.
Now picture Tim Conway sitting beside that chair as the man holding the needle. Within seconds, the patient stops being the scariest thing in the room. That little switch right there is the whole secret of Tim Conway’s comedy. He loved playing the person who was supposed to be in control, the doctor, the repairman, the coach with the clipboard, the officer with the badge.
He would give that character a calm voice, a serious face, and total confidence. And then he would let the job quietly fall apart in his hands while everyone else panicked. Most people remember Tim Conway for the big moments. Harvey Corman covering his face trying not to laugh and losing the battle. Carol Bernett turning away from the camera with her shoulders shaking.
Johnny Carson laughing so hard he practically slid under his own desk. Those are the famous clips and they are wonderful. Underneath all of them, though, was a smaller and sharper idea that Tim kept coming back to for decades. He kept handing the wrong man a uniform and a very serious job. And today, we’re going to walk through the funniest sketches where that idea came alive.
The ones where every expert turned out to be completely useless. The dentist who couldn’t survive his own needle. The doctor who moved slower than the emergency. the sports genius whose own body argued with every word coming out of his mouth. The repair man who made a house more dangerous just by walking into it.
So stay with me to the end because the funniest version of this whole trick only showed up near the finish line. That’s when Tim stood next to the most confident man in all of Hollywood, John Wayne himself, and made the toughest cowboy alive look like he had wandered onto the wrong movie set by accident. Here’s the line to keep in your head the whole way through with Tim Conway.
The expert was usually the emergency. The wrong man in the right uniform. Before we get to the sketches, it helps to understand what made this style so different from regular comedy. >> Try this way, Mr. Slesinger. >> Thank you. >> It always seems to happen on a Sunday, doesn’t it? >> Oh, boy. I tell you, it really hurts. >> Dr. Kefir will be with you in a minute.
>> Dr. Kefir, what happened to Dr. Burmar? >> Oh, he’s out of town. He’s breaking in a new partner, his son-in-law. >> Doesn’t hurt that much. >> You won’t find another dentist on Sunday. >> Yeah, I guess you’re right. You You sure you know you know he knows what he’s doing? >> Dr.
Kefir just graduated from dental school. As a matter of fact, you’re his very first patient, so he may be a little nervous. >> He won’t be the only one. >> Most comedians who play a fool, >> your first patient is waiting. >> He’s still here, >> doctor. He’s waiting. >> Oh, yeah. Oh, boy. I thought we were just going to come in and practice today.
I didn’t know we >> He’ll be right with you. let you know right away that the character is a fool. They mug at the camera. They trip over the furniture. They make sure you understand the joke. Tim went the other direction. >> Hello. Hello, doctor. Well, I’ll be $20. >> His characters had no idea anything was wrong. >> C’s? Yeah.
See, in dental school in filling and pulling, I only got C’s. That was just kind of an average grade. I got A’s in cleaning though. You want me to clean it for you? >> Well, will it stop the pain? No, but it looked great. Boy, I was right off. >> They believed in themselves completely. >> I cheated on my final. And besides, I had monucleloss the last semester, so I didn’t get a chance to work on people like the other guys.
So, most of my work was just done with animals. I don’t I don’t care about animals. Just please fix this tooth. >> Yeah, but it isn’t the same working on animals and people. I >> DOCTOR, I DON’T CARE. PLEASE. I’M A TERRIBLE PAIN. YEAH, PLEASE. WELL, please give it a try. >> They thought they were the most qualified person in the building.
That belief is the engine. A man who knows he’s failing just looks sad. A man who is failing while feeling absolutely certain he’s doing a great job. >> Let’s see. Now, if we’re going to pull her out, we’ll have to have those pulley things, these pulleys, and let’s see. Pinchy things and the little picky things there. Pinchy picky pulley.
t pull your tooth out. Boy, this is going to hurt. Is something else entirely. He’s the friend who insists he knows a shortcut and gets you lost for an hour. He’s the relative who swears he can fix the sink. He’s every confident voice you’ve ever followed straight into a wall. Tim turned that feeling into an art form.
And the best place to begin is the one room where a confident unqualified man is genuinely frightening. The dentist’s chair. >> Doctor, if it’s going to hurt, please give me something to kill the pain. >> Yeah. Okay. Well, got some Novacaane right here. Just uh hold on then, man. Let’s see how this works here. Okay.
Novacaane. Here we are. Novacane. Take a firm hold of the hypodermic needle. RIGHT. The dentist who couldn’t survive his own needle. In one of the most beloved sketches he ever filmed, Tim plays a dentist on his very first day. The patient, played by Harvey Corman, walks in already nervous, which is how most of us feel about the dentist anyway.
So far, so normal. We’ve all been that patient. Then Tim picks up the needle. He never tells you he’s bad at this. That’s the genius. He never breaks character to wink at the audience. He just holds the needle slightly wrong. Reads the instructions off the box like a man assembling furniture. HEAT. HEAT. and keeps that polite, professional little face the entire time. He’s calm.
He’s gentle. He’s also a complete danger to everyone within arms reach. Watch what he does with the patients fear. A normal sketch would try to make the patient relax. Tim does the opposite. He gives that fear a reason to exist. Every move he makes is slow, careful, and slightly off.
So you and the patient are reading the situation together in real time. Both of you slowly realizing that the trained professional in this room is the most unpredictable element in it. Then comes the moment everyone remembers. He fumbles the needle and ends up injecting himself. HEAT. HEAT. SORRY, I didn’t just Oh, well now that’ll be $20.
>> First, his own hand goes numb. He looks at it like it belongs to a stranger. Then his leg. Then half his body. And the beautiful part is that he keeps trying to work. He keeps reaching for the patient with a hand he can no longer feel. Still committed, still professional, still absolutely sure that the appointment is going just fine.
The patient came in with an ordinary fear. He leaves having watched the dentist slowly defeat himself. The power in the room flipped completely, and Tim never raised his voice once. The dentist did have one advantage, though. He could still move, at least for a while. The next character could barely manage even that.
The doctor who moved slower than the emergency, a doctor is supposed to change the temperature of a room. When the doctor finally arrives, everyone relaxes a little because now there’s someone present whose whole job is to know what to do. Help has arrived. >> Well, well, what? Who are you? I’m the doctor. You’re not my regular doctor.
I said for Dr. Becker. Well, I’m Dr. Becker’s father. I’m Dr. Becker. Right. Come on, doctor. Please. >> Tim took that idea and bent it sideways. In his hands, help arrive so slowly that the help becomes the second emergency. There I’ll be right. >> Where you going? >> I uh I wash up. Where are you going? >> Oh, it’s over there. But please, hurry.
>> All right. Now, take your time. See, that’s the trouble with people nowadays. They don’t stop to smell the roses. Rush. Rush. Rush. feels like pressure. >> Playing an extremely old doctor, he turns medicine into a test of patience for everyone around him. The patient gets more urgent. The nurses get more frantic.
And Tim just gets calmer and slower, taking his time crossing a room as if the entire concept of hurry had been invented for other people. What makes it work is that he treats time itself like a prop. Every shuffle of his feet lands like a punchline. Every pause stretches just long enough to make you laugh and then a little longer until the pause itself becomes funnier than anything he could say.
He barely needs dialogue. The whole room has to live at his speed. And his speed is roughly that of a glacier with a medical degree. You never know what’s going to happen next. Just relax. You start laughing at the slowness and then you keep laughing because of what the slowness means. Everyone around him needs a doctor right now.
The person who walked through the door looks like he might need a doctor himself. The one man hired to bring control into the room turns out to be the one thing the room cannot work around. It’s a gentle joke and a smart one. Tim found the comedy in the gap between how fast the situation is moving and how slowly the so-called expert is responding to it.
Then he took that same useless confidence and he pinned a badge on it. the officers who followed every rule except the right one. When Tim moved his characters from medicine into law enforcement, the idea grew. Now the stakes weren’t just a sore tooth. Now there was a crime, a suspect, a situation that needed sharp thinking and fast reactions.
>> Where is that guy? He’s 20 minutes late already. you a policeman? That’s about time you got here. >> Sergeant Mullins? >> Yeah, I’m Sergeant Mullins. >> Right. Officer Frisbee, sir, reporting. >> All right, Frisbee. >> In his undercover cop bits, often paired with Harvey Corman trying desperately to keep the operation on track, Tim plays an officer who takes the job extremely seriously and is extremely bad at it.
The joke is not that he ignores the rules. The joke is that he respects the wrong rule at the worst possible moment. >> It’s getting late. We better get started. >> Yeah. Oh, well. Uh, I’ll need your identification. >> We don’t have time for that. Come on. >> Wait a minute. They told me at the police academy, never accept the case unless you had proper identification.
>> Oh, for Pete’s sake. >> Take it a minute. >> Here you are. Want to take it out of there? He’ll stop to handle a tiny procedural detail while the whole case quietly falls apart behind him. He’ll focus all his energy on something that doesn’t matter. >> Is this uh Howard Mullins? >> That’s right. Howard Mullins.
>> Wait a minute. This uh this picture don’t look much like you. >> Well, it was taken a couple of years ago. >> Oh, yeah. Well, uh wait a minute. Let’s check her out here. Could you smile? See that? Uh >> Mhm. I’m working into it. Mhm. with the intense concentration of a man diffusing a bomb while the actual problem walks right out the door.
He’s careful. He’s thorough. He’s by the book. >> Look, Frisbee, I’m not crazy about this assignment either, but some guy has been mugging couples in the park for 6 months now. And every careful, thorough, by the book choice he makes pushes the mission a little closer to disaster. This is where you start to notice the pattern building.
Tim isn’t just playing one bad professional. He’s working his way through every job that depends on a person staying calm and competent under pressure and finding the exact spot where calm competence collapses into something hilarious. A bad dentist is dangerous to one patient. A bad cop is dangerous to a whole operation. >> I hate you, Howard.
>> All right, reach both of you. >> You give me your wallet. >> Oh, sure. >> Ah, keep your hands up. I’ll get it. There we are. All right, now don’t move. Okay, sweetheart. Now for you. Howard. >> Well, well, please be gentle. >> You guys must BE KIDDING. GIVE ME YOUR HANDCUFFS. I’ll take your gun while I’m at it.
You mean you know we’re cops? >> Of course. I can smell a cop a mile away. >> Should have wore perfume. >> Put your hand behind you. >> Yeah. >> Okay. So long, coppers. The circle of damage keeps getting wider. And Tim keeps that same innocent face the entire time, like a man who genuinely cannot understand why everything around him keeps going wrong.
By now, he had taken apart medicine and police work. Next, he found a way to ruin expertise before the expert even opened his mouth. Dorf, the genius whose body disagreed with him. If you’ve never seen Dwarf, the visual hits you before anything else. Tim created a character who appears to be only a couple of feet tall, achieved with a clever camera trick, and Tim performing on his knees inside oversized shoes.
The first time Dorf waddles into frame, the audience is already gone. >> Here’s the man who can put it all together for you. The man who can help you help your game. Bor, the Duke of D. Jim Conway starring in Dorf on D. Now here’s Dorf. You laugh before he says a word. A lesser comedian would stop there and let the costume do all the work.
Tim refused to let it. That refusal is the whole reason Dorf became a sensation. Because Dorf is not just a funny little man. Dorf is an expert, a sports authority. >> In the golf, the object of the game is to get this tiny little weeny ball into that tiny little weeny hole way down there with as a few strokes as possible.
Now, I’d like to introduce a very valuable asset to my game of a golf, macheti, a Leonard. Leonard will of course be selecting right for me and also giving me some information on the course itself. Right, Leonard? Huh? The club. Leonard, the club. You’ll be giving me information about the course and selecting to write the club.
>> The club’s over there, >> right? That’s what I mean. We get >> a confident lecturing genius who has come to teach you, the viewer, how to master golf or basketball or weightlifting with the booming certainty of a man who has won everything there is to win. And here’s the comedy. His voice promises a champion.
His body delivers the opposite. He explains the perfect golf swing while being physically unable to perform any part of it. Thank you. Now, this little device here is a design to keep your head down and your eye on the ball. This chain attaches to this little brace down here on your stomach. Uh, Leonard, hand me my golf club, you please.
That’s a hammer. Leonard, I want the golf club. See? Hammer. golf club. That’s a good Now, I’ll just uh attach this down here and show you how this little apparatus works. You can see that this keeps your head down and your eye on the ball. How easy it is on the ball. So, GOOD. LEONARD, help me up here.
All right, Leonard, watch out for those golf carts. HOW MANY TIMES DO I UNPLUG IT? It’s 2200. Unplug it. >> He breaks down the science of the slam dunk while standing closer to the ground than the basketball. >> Understand all. I understand a dunk that you can actually slam dunk a basketball. That’s right.
How can that humanly be fine? >> Well, I have a little assistance that I have to just hold on to that. I got this is a little special case on the tit like that. It’s kind of balanced like that. And then I can maneuver it pretty good around the course like that. And I then once I get down there, I set myself up. And if you just shoot me that ball and then I just hear like that.
> He prepares for a lift like a serious athlete, >> right? They just like to warm up a bit because you can imagine with this kind of weight, I mean, LIKE those legs BLOOD CIRCULATION. THERE WE GO. NOW, I’ll have to hold that for five fast five fast seconds before Oh, boy. I I I think we got trouble here. >> Every bit of his ritual borrowed from real champions.
And then the lift goes exactly as badly as you knew it would. Tim plays Dwarf completely straight, which is the trick. Dwarf is never in on the joke. Dwarf believes every single thing he says. He’s the world’s most confident teacher, trapped in a body that contradicts him at every turn, and he never once notices the contradiction.
That gap between the expert he believes he is and the expert he obviously is not is a bottomless well of laughs. So, by this point in our story, the pattern is impossible to miss. The dentist had tools. The doctor had authority. The cop had a badge. Dorf had expertise and every single one of them made the room worse just by being trusted with the job.
Which brings us to the heart of all of it. Why the expert was always the danger. Here’s where Tim Conway stops being just a sketch comedian and turns into something stranger and more interesting. He’s not simply playing silly men. Look closer at every character we’ve talked about. Each one was handed something serious. A patient who needed care.
A crime that needed solving. A room full of people waiting for someone to step up and know what to do. These characters were trusted. That’s the part that matters. Society looked at them, saw a uniform and a title, and handed over the controls. And every sketch opens with a promise. The white coat promises competence. The badge promises competence.
The serious, knowledgeable voice promises competence. We meet these men and our brains relax the same way we relax when the real dentist walks in because the costume tells us we’re in good hands. Then Tim walks further into the scene and lets that promise fall slowly and gently right in front of us. That’s why these bits still work today, decades later, on a phone screen with the volume low while you fold laundry.
You’re not only laughing at a man moving slowly or saying something odd. You’re laughing at a small real fear that lives in all of us. The fear that the person in charge might be guessing, that the confident voice might be hollow, that the man with the title might be making it up as he goes, exactly like the rest of us.
With Tim Conway, the expert was usually the danger. And once you see that every sketch in the second half of his career gets funnier because Tim discovered something even better. His useless experts became most dangerous of all when he placed them right next to people who actually looked competent. He found the real comedy in contrast in standing his confident failure shoulderto-shoulder with genuine skill and letting you watch the difference.
So, let’s keep going because that’s exactly where the laughs get bigger. >> Hello. Yes. News line. Yes. Go ahead. Eggs, butter, loaf of bread. Uh, who is this, please? Well, look, honey. I’m on the air. Yeah. No, right. Yeah, right now. Uh, well, I I can’t I have it. Yeah, the eggs better. Yeah, right. Goodbye. Well, no, I can’t.
Well, we’re on the air. Well, it’s just all right. Oopsie. Whoopsie. Love you, too. >> The newsman who stayed calm for no good reason. Television news is built on one quiet promise. The person at the desk is in control. Whatever is happening in the world, the anchor will deliver it to you steadily, clearly, and without losing his composure. We trust the calm.
Tim found the comedy in a man who stays perfectly calm for absolutely no good reason. In his newsman’s sketches, the whole broadcast comes apart around him. The teleprompter fails. The system glitches. The carefully built machine of the newsroom starts collapsing in real time. And through all of it, Tim keeps that smooth, professional anchor’s voice, reporting nonsense with the same steady confidence he’d use for a serious headline.
A real newsman can survive almost any mistake as long as he looks composed. Tim took that survival instinct and pushed it past the breaking point. His anchor stays composed long after composure has stopped making any sense. Calmly steering a broadcast that has already crashed like the captain of a ship insisting everything is fine while standing kneedeep in water.
The more chaotic it gets, the calmer he becomes. And the calmer he becomes, the funnier the chaos looks. He turned the anchor’s greatest strength, that unshakable steadiness, into the exact thing that makes the whole scene fall apart. A broken machine, though, is still just a machine. You can laugh at it and move on.
The next kind of expert had something far more fragile to protect. His pride. I think we’re the ball. You throw the ball. That’s the name of the game. Take throw. ALL RIGHT. GOT IT. >> I GOT IT. >> FOLLOW me to victory. Last time I did. Oh, we just had that shot out of >> the coach who made bad advice sound official.
A coach is supposed to know things you don’t. That’s the entire job. You listen to a coach because you believe he has knowledge, experience, a deeper understanding of the game than you’ll ever have. You trust the lesson. Tim built a character who has the voice of a great coach and absolutely nothing behind it.
He plays the sports authority who delivers the most obvious advice in the world as if it were ancient wisdom passed down through generations. He’ll tell an athlete to essentially try harder and do better. And he’ll say it slowly, thoughtfully, with the weight of a man sharing a profound secret. He builds entire lesson plans out of pure air, and his confidence is so total that the emptiness somehow starts to sound like genius.
This is a step up from Dwarf. And here’s why. Dwarf only embarrassed himself. The coach is worse. Because a coach passes his nonsense on to other people. He doesn’t just hold the wrong idea. He teaches it. He stands in front of students and athletes who are actually trying to learn and he fills their heads with confident official sounding emptiness.
Tim made bad advice sound like the truth. And that’s a sharper joke than it first appears because we’ve all met that person. The expert whose certainty is the only real qualification they have. The voice so sure of itself that you start to doubt your own common sense. When a useless expert only talks, though the damage stays theoretical, nobody actually gets hurt by a bad speech.
But when that same useless expert brings tools into your house, the damage stops being theoretical and becomes very, very physical. The repair man and the man who couldn’t stop laughing. This is one of the great ones, partly because of who Tim shared the screen with. In the save a buck glass sketch, Tim plays a cheap repairman who arrives to fix a window.
And his partner in the scene is Dick Van Djk. Now, if you don’t know that name, here’s all you need. Dick Van Djk was one of the most graceful physical comedians in the history of television. The man could fall down a flight of stairs and make it look like ballet. His timing was flawless. His control over his own body was the work of a master, and that’s exactly why this sketch is so good.
Tim hands a performer that precise, something he cannot dance around. He gives him a calm, sincere, confident man who is steadily and methodically destroying the job. Tim’s repair man doesn’t fix the window. He makes the situation worse with every careful step, breaking more than he repairs, all while wearing the satisfied expression of a craftsman doing excellent work.
Watch how Dick Van Djk reacts because that reaction is half the comedy. He isn’t just responding to a joke. He’s responding to a slow motion disaster to a man calmly dismantling everything around him with total confidence. The contrast does all the work. You’ve got genuine grace standing right next to genuine catastrophe. And the gap between them is where you find the laughs.
This is the idea we talked about earlier, finally fully grown. Tim’s useless expert is at his funniest when he’s measured against real skill. Put him alone in a room and he’s funny. Put him beside a master and the comedy doubles because now you can see precisely how far short he falls and he still has no idea. But there was one kind of confidence in old American entertainment bigger than even Dick Van Djk’s grace.
One image so powerful it didn’t need precision or skill to fill a screen. >> The cowboy. >> It’s just looks like that. It’s, you know, it’s make believe. Now, this bottle looks real, doesn’t it? It’s nothing but spun glass. >> Well, that didn’t hurt, did it? >> Nice stuff. All fake. KIM, >> THAT’S REALLY INTERESTING. >> YEAH, I LEARNED ALL THAT STUFF FROM DOING TRUE G.
>> And this is a breakaway chair. >> Mr. Wayne, where are the fake props you ordered? >> Tim Conway, John Wayne, and the toughest man alive. To understand why this next pairing is so perfect, you have to understand what John Wayne meant to American audiences. For generations, John Wayne was the picture of toughness itself.
He walked slow, talked low, and never seemed afraid of anything. He played soldiers and cowboys and law men, men who rode into danger and rode back out again like it was a chore. His whole image carried the weight of an entire idea about American manhood. He barely had to act. He just had to stand there. and the toughness arrived on its own.
That is exactly what made Tim Conway so funny beside him. Because here is John Wayne, a man who looks built for the open frontier, every inch of him solid and sure. And here, right next to him, is Tim Conway, a man who looks like he wandered into the frontier because somebody gave him the wrong room number.
small, nervous, polite, holding his confidence like a hat he isn’t sure he’s allowed to wear. The Western world runs entirely on confidence. The fast draw, the steady eye, the man who never blinks. And Tim’s character had confidence, too, which is the joke. He had plenty of it. It was just the wrong kind.
the kind that shows up late to the danger, misreads the situation completely and still feels absolutely certain it belongs there in the middle of the action. Tim never tried to outtuff John Wayne. That would have failed instantly. And Tim was far too smart for that. Instead, he simply stood beside the legend and let the contrast do everything.
He didn’t have to attack the image of the fearless cowboy. He just had to exist next to it, small and sincere and wonderfully out of place until the toughness started to look almost silly all by itself just from having him standing there. That’s the heart of his entire style captured in a single image. Tim Conway didn’t defeat Hollywood toughness by fighting it.
He stood next to it until it started to look ridiculous on its own. And here’s the thing that ties the whole story together. This was not some clever idea Tim stumbled onto late in his career after years of practice. The wrong man in the wrong uniform had been there almost from the very beginning. Before the dentist, before Dorf, before he ever made Carson slide under that desk, there was Enen Parker.
Where it all started on Male’s Navy. Long before the famous sketches, Tim Conway got his big break on a television comedy called Male’s Navy, playing a sweet, bumbling young officer named Enen Parker. And if you go back and watch Parker now, knowing everything that came after, it’s like finding the first sketch an artist ever drew.
The whole future is already in there. The military runs on order. War runs on clear commands, fast decisions, and people doing exactly what they’re told the moment they’re told. It’s the ultimate system of competence under pressure. And into that system, Tim placed Enen Parker, a young man who always seemed to need someone to explain things one more time.
A man with a rank and a role, and absolutely none of the instincts that the rank and the role require. Parker is the seed of every character we’ve talked about today. He’s the doctor, the dentist, the cop, the coach, the repairman. All of them in an early and gentle form. A person who has been handed responsibility he does not understand.
Moving through a serious world with sincere, good intentions and no idea what he’s doing. But notice something important about Parker because it explains why audiences loved Tim Conway for the rest of his life. Enson Parker was never the bad guy. He was never cruel, never lazy, never mean. He was kind. He was trying. He genuinely wanted to do well.
He was just completely hopelessly misplaced. That kindness is the thread running through everything Tim ever did. His useless experts were almost never unpleasant people. They were polite. They were sincere. They believed in themselves with their whole hearts. They simply had no business being in charge of anything. And maybe that’s the real reason people kept coming back to him year after year, sketch after sketch.
Tim wasn’t only making fun of doctors and coaches and cowboys. He was making fun of the quiet little performance hiding inside ordinary life. the performance of pretending we know what we’re doing. The reason we’re still laughing, so let’s bring it all the way home. The dentist, the doctor, the officer, the coach, the repairman, the newsman, the soldier.
Line them all up and you realize they’re really the same man wearing different costumes. And they all carry the same small secret fear at their center. the fear that the person in charge is just guessing. We’ve all felt it. We’ve all stood in a moment where everyone was looking at us to know the answer and quietly hoped nobody could tell we were figuring it out as we went.
We’ve all followed a confident voice and ended up somewhere we shouldn’t be. We’ve all been the expert who wasn’t at least once in some small corner of our lives. Tim Conway found a gentle, generous way to laugh at that fear. He never made failure cruel. He made it human. He made it warm. His characters walked into rooms they couldn’t handle, accepted jobs they didn’t understand, and explained unfolding disasters in the calm, sincere voice of a man who still believed everything was going perfectly fine.
And somewhere inside every one of those characters is a little piece of all of us. A piece of anyone who ever stood in front of a job, a family, a problem, or a room full of waiting people and quietly hoped that nobody would notice they were making it up as they went along. That’s why these clips never get old.
That’s why they still land decades later in a world that looks nothing like the one they were filmed in. The technology changed, the styles changed, the fear stayed exactly the same. So the next time you catch one of these sketches, watch Tim Conway as the dentist or the coach or the cowboy standing beside John Wayne and pay attention to that serious, sincere little face. That was always the trick.
