History OverlyLongGag / LiveActionTV

** And {{subverted|Trope}} with [[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TbdjYy20q8Q The Man Who Contradicts People]], which starts with a TV presenter interviewing a man who contradicts whatever is being said to him, when suddenly John Cleese interrupts it with a bored "and on and on".

* ''Series/{{Victorious}}'': "Please run in front of a bus." "Quite obnoxious of you to say!" "Really?" "Sure was." "Thaaaaaanks!" "Up your nose I see boogers." "Very clever." "Wish you'd thought of that?" "X marks the spot I'd like to punch." "Your...finger smells weird!" And so on and so forth.

* Lying somewhere between Overly Long Gag and LeaveTheCameraRunning: a sketch from an old Finnish sketch show (starring the Finnish actor/comedian legend Pertti "Spede" Pasanen) features a customer and a salesman in a hardware store. The customer asks for a certain product and the salesman picks it up from the shelf: the joke lies in that the salesman goes to the shelf, picks up the item and brings it to the customer veeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeery sloooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooowly, easily taking a few minutes with the camera patiently watching the "action". ''[[UpToEleven And then this is repeated.]] [[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=344Ku6CSJfI Several times]].''

*** In a host segment for "[[Recap/MysteryScienceTheater3000S06E03TheDeadTalkBack The Dead Talk Back]]", Crow, dressed as Jerry Garcia from Music/TheGratefulDead, does an [[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKKrW-NbNtk interminably long guitar solo]]. He doesn't even stop right away when it's time to go back to the movie. He also continues through the remaining host segments and the closing credits.

-->'''Mr Smoketoomuch''': Yes, I quite agree, I mean what's the point of being treated like sheep? What's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea - "Oh they don't make it properly here, do they, not like at home" - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they "overdid it on the first day" and being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners and then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, Torremolinos" and complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres and sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays "Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner" and spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing Enterovioform and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished and when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet and half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out and the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco and then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich" and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane...

*** ''Film/TheCreepingTerror'' music skit
*** Crow-as-[[Film/TheScreamingSkull Screaming-Skull]] skit.
*** Tom's nearly three-minute hysterical laughing/crying jag in one of the host segments for ''Film/TheViolentYears''.
*** More than four minutes are spent after ''Film/TheUndead'' watching Professor Bobo make a sandwich.
*** One episode has Tom doing a walk-a-thon for "Helping Children Through Research and Development," which is [[FunWithAcronyms actually an acronym]] for "Hi Everyone, Let's Pitch In 'N Get Cracking Here In Louisiana Doing Right, Eh? Now Then, Hateful Rich Overbearing Ugly Guys Hurt Royally Everytime Someone Eats A Radish, Carrot, Hors-d'ouvres, And Never Does Dishes. Eventually Victor Eats Lunch Over Peoria Mit Ein Nauesburger Tod." This is repeated in its entirety several times.
*** [[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h2f0nfrgaK4 A Joke by Ingmar Bergman]] from "The Sword and the Dragon" takes four minutes to tell a simple joke by imitating [[LeFilmArtistique an Ingmar Bergman film]].
*** In a host segment for ''Film/TheDeadTalkBack'', Crow, dressed as Jerry Garcia from Music/TheGratefulDead, does an [[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKKrW-NbNtk interminably long guitar solo]]. He doesn't even stop right away when it's time to go back to the movie. He also continues through the remaining host segments and the closing credits.
*** In ''Film/TeenageCrimewave'', the credits are repeatedly cut short by scenes of Frank getting sprayed with the Mace Mousse.
*** ''Film/DaddyO'' had the button that starts the credits break, so it kept going back to the Mads doing various things until Dr. F finally fixes the button.
*** Dr. F slapping Frank throughout the credits of ''Film/TheBeastOfYuccaFlats''.

*** Tom and Crow laughing creepily and Italianly over the credits to ''Film/DevilFish''.
*** Tom's extended "20 Year Plan" speech in ''Film/ManosTheHandsOfFate'', to cover up one of the film's many [[LeaveTheCameraRunning extended driving sequences]]. This gag, at a whopping minute and ten seconds, is the longest continuous riff in the show's ten-year history.
*** "[[Film/TheLeechWoman JEEEEEEEEEEEE...EEED]]!"
*** While watching the film ''Film/{{Laserblast}}'', towards the end, an upbeat melody is playing on the radio of the car, prompting Servo to sing [[https://youtu.be/McIxMlOXbS0 The South's Gonna Do It Again]] by the Charlie Daniels Band. Mike then asks Servo what exactly the South will do again, a question that Servo answers, but over the next few riffs, shows frustration at Mike's question. The trio continue to riff normally, but either Servo would bring up The subject again, or Mike would continue to ask about the South for the next five minutes. It ends with Servo angrily shouting at Mike "Oh look, just lay off! You'll see! When the South does rise again, I'll be laughing! Me! Me!!!"
** There's an in-universe example in the ''Film/EarthVsTheSpider'' episode when the crew read Crow's script for ''Earth vs. Soup''. Joel, reading for the waitress, observes that she screams "No!" for six pages as she's attacked by the giant bowl of soup, which he refuses to read all of despite Crow's urging.

* In what is probably one of the most famous scenes from ''Series/KenanAndKel'', "The Tainting of the Screw" Kenan examines Kel during a lawsuit brought about him almost choking on a screw in a can of tuna. Kel ends up breaking down, confessing loudly to his friend that ''he'' dropped the screw in the tuna, over and over and over, while stumbling around the courtroom.

* In what is probably one of the most famous scenes from ''Series/KenanAndKel'', Kenan examines his friend during a lawsuit brought about him almost choking on a screw in a can of tuna. Kel ends up breaking down, confessing loudly to his friend that he dropped the screw in the tuna, over and over and over, while stumbling about the courtroom.

* The tenth season finale of ''Series/TheBigBangTheory''
"The Long Distance Dissonance" ends with one. While Amy's away at Princeton, Sheldon hires a female assistant who seemingly has a crush on him. Finally, they're alone in his office and she kisses him without his consent. He responds by saying he has something to do and walking out the door. We then see him walk out of the building, get into a taxi, ride to the airport, book a flight, take that flight, land in New Jersey, take another taxi to Princeton, walk into the building where Amy is staying, walk up to her room, give his signature knock, and [[spoiler: propose to her.]]

* The tenth season of ''Series/TheBigBangTheory'' ends with one. While Amy's away at Princeton, Sheldon hires a female assistant who seemingly has a crush on him. Finally, they're alone in his office and she kisses him without his consent. He responds by saying he has something to do and walking out the door. We then see him walk out of the building, get into a taxi, ride to the airport, book a flight, take that flight, land in New Jersey, take another taxi to Princeton, walk into the building where Amy is staying, walk up to her room, give his signature knock, and [[spoiler: propose to her.]]

-->'''Mr Smoketoomuch: Yes, I quite agree, I mean what's the point of being treated like sheep? What's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea - "Oh they don't make it properly here, do they, not like at home" - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they "overdid it on the first day" and being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners and then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, Torremolinos" and complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres and sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays "Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner" and spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing Enterovioform and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished and when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet and half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out and the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco and then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich" and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane...

** One sketch has man giving an epic diatribe about vacationing. In the album version, a man is forced to listen to him and is driven insane. In the printed version, other text is layered over it to cover it up. "Yes, I quite agree, I mean what's the point of being treated like sheep? What's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea - "Oh they don't make it properly here, do they, not like at home" - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they "overdid it on the first day" and being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners and then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, Torremolinos" and complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres and sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays "Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner" and spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing Enterovioform and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished and when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet and half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out and the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco and then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich" and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane..."

** Then there's the menu of that one restaurant which included such deliciacies as egg and bacon; egg, sausage and bacon; egg and spam; egg, bacon and spam; egg, bacon, sausage and spam; spam, bacon, sausage and spam; spam, egg, spam, spam, bacon and spam; spam, spam, spam, egg and spam; spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, baked beans, spam, spam, spam, and spam; or lobster thermidor aux crevettes with a mornay sauce garnished with truffle pâté, brandy and a fried egg on top and spam.

-->'''Hub: You like-a de sketch to end, huh?

** The [["https://youtu.be/MkyNaSz-zZA Hub's Gyros"]] sketch lampshades this towards the end:

* ''[[Series/MysteryScienceTheater3000 MST3K]]'':

* ''Series/TheLateShowWithStephenColbert'' made a habit out of unnecessarily reading every single dot in an ellipsis--so "...." would be pronounced "dot dot dot dot," even though it would normally be ''silent''--in Donald Trump's tweets whenever they come up in a monologue, to make fun of his tendency to put a seemingly-random number of periods at both ends of every two-part tweet. This makes it both an overly-long gag and a RunningGag.

* ''Series/DoctorWho'': In [[Recap/DoctorWhoS29E12TheSoundOfDrums "The Sound of Drums"]], the Master has the Toclafane kill a reporter who was close to unmasking his cover. He closes the door on her screams. Several seconds later, he opens it and she's still screaming, so he winces and closes the door. After some more time, he opens the door again and she's ''[[BlackComedy still screaming]]''...

** The Hungarian phrasebook sketch, which spends over half a minute following a policeman running across town after hearing a fistfight break out.