Within 48 hours of the Trump assassination attempt in Butler, Pennsylvania, CBS had already granted Scott MacFarlane trauma leave, as if it were a prize for best dramatic performance in broadcast journalism.
Was he shot? No. Did he stub his big toe in an attempt to drag himself to safety after the shooter was taken out? Nope.
According to his own words, it wasn’t the sound of gunfire or the sight of blood that sent him spiraling—it was the crowd’s reaction to the press.
“They were coming for us,” he claimed, “If [Trump] didn’t jump up with his fist, they were going to come kill us.”
That’s not reporting—that’s delusion wrapped in victimhood, broadcast with a trembling voice and a hero complex.
While President Trump took a round to the ear and raised his fist in defiance, MacFarlane was apparently taking psychic bullets from dirty looks.
If what he said was true, he should be ecstatically thanking Trump for saving his life.
PTSD as Performance Art
This isn’t journalism—it’s emotional exhibitionism. MacFarlane’s claims of PTSD ring hollow, not because trauma isn’t real, but because he’s performing it like a monologue at a Yale Drama School audition. It’s insulting to veterans, cops, abused individuals, and anyone who’s seen real violence up close and didn’t have the luxury of a trauma sabbatical and a podcast tour. What we’re watching is the collapse of accountability, replaced with a pre-printed script: stir the outrage, shape the narrative, cry PTSD when it backfires.
MacFarlane wasn’t wounded in the line of duty—his feelings were hurt when some in the crowd voiced their opinion that it was the media that was responsible for Trump’s shooting. Apparently, he never heard the old saying about “sticks and stones”.
Media Narcissism on Full Display
MacFarlane’s real trauma wasn’t the shooting—it was the shattering realization that the public holds people like him partly responsible. For years, legacy outlets painted Trump supporters as ticking time bombs, and when the bomb went off, the first instinct from that particular reporter was to cradle his own feelings. The man should be ashamed, not applauded. A man died, the candidate running for President came within a centimeter of taking a round to the skull, and this guy is saying, “What about me?”
This is the logical end of a media class so enamored with its own narrative that it can’t tell the difference between danger and discomfort.
While Trump bled and Cory Comparatore lay dying, Scott MacFarlane sweat—and somehow, he made it about himself.
