Tim and Tom were an American comedy duo. DuPont marketing manager Tim Reid and insurance salesman Tom Dreesen met at a Junior Chamber of Commerce meeting near Chicago[1] in 1968. They were "put together to promote an anti-drug program in the local schools" and, prompted by a comment from a child, decided to form a comedy team.[1] The team, later billed as "Tim & Tom", was the first interracial comedy duo (Reid is African-American and Dreesen is white). Years later, Reid and Dreesen co-wrote a book about those years called Tim & Tom: An American Comedy in Black and White (ISBN 978-0-226-70900-0, co-written with sports writer Ron Rapoport).
Sample from: That's Not Funny! by Vince Sanders (ISBN 1-4196-2725-2)
The TIM & TOM pitch was obnoxiously intense. One was holding the young man by the arm while the other tugged at his lapel, each trying to give him sales points with which to confront his bosses, who were just inside the theater. Somewhere in that conversation, I learned his name was Kenny Reynolds, of The David Frost Show. As Kenny struggled to free himself physically and evade the brainwashing as well, he pleaded in vain for them to understand that the auditions for comedians were closed. Each time he repeated that, either Tim or Tom would come up with a fresh idea on how to circumvent the "no more comedians needed for this segment" order. The haggling continued as Kenny said over and over, "Look, guys, I already gave it my best shot. I've already covered those points with people inside, and the segment's still closed!" Nevertheless, Tim and Tom were dogged in their pursuit, and it paid off. Kenny, like most people who met these two guys under similar circumstances, was attracted to the basic concept of "The Nation's First Black-and-White Comedy Team." In addition, it was hard not to like these guys, whether they were as funny as they claimed or not. So, Kenny finally agreed to go back and try to the sell the novelty element of TIM & TOM to The David Frost Show staff one last time. There was some suspense as he re-entered the theater. From the alleyway where we stood, we could see the voters who decided the fate of "showbiz wannabes" as they sat in judgment. We stood there watching Kenny's re-entry through the doors to the inner sanctum. As they closed shut on his heels, a heavy layer of angst filled the alleyway.
Immediately following Kenny's disappearance behind the door, Tim and Tom began making fantasy wagers on the outcome of this crucial attempt to get the act onto The David Frost Show. They also belabored a choice of comedy material to use in the event the answer was yes. There was also some talk of asking Kenny to arrange for them to meet the people inside. That is, if he came back with another "no" answer. This was, again, an example of the inherent confidence in their salesmanship. However, none of this would be necessary. When Kenny returned, he gave them a stern expression succeeded by the following: "Okay! They say you can only have five minutes…. You got five minutes!" Although we'd been waiting and hoping for this answer, it appeared we weren't prepared for it when it came. Instead of this good news easing the nervous tension, it heightened it. I recall one of them asking Kenny inane questions such as, "What does that mean… five minutes?" Then they turned on each other with a battery of nervous exchanges about what it meant to have a five-minute audition for The David Frost Show.
After a spell, the dust began settling. The exchanges became more rational. One in particular demonstrated, once more, the temperamental differences between these two performers. Disturbed by the amount of allotted time, Tim turned to me and said, "But, Vince, all our skits are three minutes! How can we do five minutes?" "That's of less importance than picking the right skit," I said, trying to assuage his anxiety. He continued his protest. "The man made it clear… They only want us to do five minutes, and you know our pieces don't work too well when we start cutting 'em!" I couldn't let him cave in. With a firm grip on his shoulder, I yelled, "Tim, trust me! If you're funny, there is no way they'll stop you after exactly five minutes. Just make sure your performance is up to snuff." It was obvious he wasn't buying into my theory. Tom chimed in with a touch of supportive wisdom: "So what if they signal us at five minutes? We shouldn't quit until we complete the other minute." Nonetheless, Tim's reluctance persisted even as they worked, still standing in the alleyway beside the Ed Sullivan Theatre, to decide which of their repertoire items would be the most effective. Even after they chose which skits they'd do, Tim still held out for leaving the stage if it appeared the first one wasn't making the mark.
Finally, someone came to usher us into the theater. Shortly thereafter, my boys were headed for big-time television!
Would you believe it? Just as Tim had feared, the first skit went down the toilet. And just as he had promised, he tried to bolt the stage. From my seat, I kept signaling for him to remain onstage while Tom, restraining Tim by his elbow, was introducing the next skit. When Tim finally planted himself onstage and delivered his line in response to Tom's leadoff line, suddenly there was laughter throughout the room. I looked at Kenny to find him breathing much easier than he'd been during the first skit. What happened with the first skit, I hadn't a clue. They had selected one of their funnier pieces to open with. But… it just didn't work. Even I didn't find it funny, and I normally laughed at everything they said and did, on and offstage. But Voila! The second skit went over big-time, and TIM & TOM won a five-minute slot on The David Frost Show. I cautioned them against overvaluing this one-time appearance on national television, saying, "One shot like this does not a comedy career make." Nonetheless, because of the David Frost piece, we left New York feeling a bit more "achieved" than earlier in the week.