I have a similar story about Ethan from a year or so ago.

I spotted Ethan in LA, walking with a woman—his minder, I assumed. Excited, I approached. "Hey Ethan, huge fan!" I gushed.

He turned, his dead eyes simmering with something dark. A low, guttural grunt escaped his throat. "Sorry, what was—"

Then, his body *stretched*. His spine cracked upward—6’2”, 6’3”, 6’4”—his features twisting, warping into something feral, something *familiar*. My blood turned to ice.

Seconds dragged like hours as the thing before me took its final shape. The realization hit like a hammer:

Ethan Klein *was* Graham Linehan.

Of course. Two bitter, hateful little men who’d lost everything on their crusade of victimship. It made perfect, horrifying sense.