Sylvester Stallone’s ‘Tulsa King’ Season 3 Is Somehow Worse Than Prison, Says Local Man Who’s Been to Both
Alright, listen up, you absolute meatbags. I know you’re all sitting there, desperately scrolling for something to numb the existential dread of your 9-to-5, and you think you’ve found it. You see Stallone’s grizzled mug plastered all over your streaming service and you think, “Hey, remember when he punched a Russian in the face and we all cheered? Let’s do that again.”
Stop. Just stop. I’m here to save your brain cells from a fate worse than a tax audit. I’m talking about *Tulsa King* Season 3, which just dropped, and it’s apparently the only thing on Earth less compelling than watching a Karen argue with a cashier over a coupon for 14 cents.
But don’t just take my word for it. I tracked down a guy—let’s call him “Dwayne”—who has the unique, tragic distinction of having served actual hard time in a medium-security facility in Oklahoma AND having binge-watched all of Season 3 in one sitting. Spoiler alert: he said he’d rather go back to the joint.
“Look,” Dwayne told me over the phone, his voice sounding like he’d been chain-smoking gravel, “In prison, you got structure. You know the rules. You know that if you look at Big Mike the wrong way, you’re gonna get shanked in the cafeteria. It’s predictable. This show? This show is chaos in the worst way. It’s like they hired a bunch of AI bots to write a script based on a fever dream a guy had after eating a bad gas station burrito.”
He’s not wrong. Season 3 of *Tulsa King* has somehow doubled down on all the ridiculous aspects of the show that made Season 1 a guilty pleasure and amped them up to 11, while completely jettisoning any semblance of logic or charm.
For those of you who’ve been living under a rock (or, you know, have a life), the premise is simple: Dwight “The General” Manfredi (Stallone) is a New York mobster who gets released after 25 years and is exiled to Tulsa, Oklahoma. He then proceeds to build a criminal empire in the middle of flyover country, one awkwardly delivered one-liner at a time.
Season 1 was fun, right? Fish out of water, Stallone doing his best impression of a human being, a bunch of lovable redneck idiots as his crew. Season 2 got a little convoluted with the biker gangs and the casino stuff, but it was still watchable. It was like a greasy cheeseburger—not good for you, but it hits the spot.
Season 3, however, is like that same cheeseburger, but someone forgot to cook the patty, then dropped it in a puddle of motor oil, and then a raccoon ran off with the bun.
The plot is a goddamn mess. I will not even attempt to summarize it because my brain is still trying to process the sheer stupidity. There’s something about a weed farm, a Native American casino, a rival mob boss who looks like he’s about to die of a heart attack every time he speaks, and Stallone’s character trying to navigate the complexities of… making a car loan? I’m not kidding. There’s a solid 20-minute subplot about financing a goddamn Ford F-150.
The new characters are a crime against humanity. They introduce this “hacker” who is the epitome of the “I’m in” meme. He wears a hoodie, has a lisp, and talks about “the cloud” like it’s a physical place you can visit. He’s supposed to be a genius, but he can’t figure out how to use a vending machine without breaking it. It’s like they found him in the lost and found bin of a 2012 Comic-Con.
And don’t even get me started on the action sequences. In Season 1, we got that classic Stallone bar fight—brutal, visceral, and over in 30 seconds. In Season 3, the big set-piece is a slow-motion chase scene where Stallone is driving a golf cart through a farmer’s market, knocking over watermelons. The stakes are lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut. I’ve seen more intense action in a commercial for a retirement community.
But the worst part, the absolute kicker, is Stallone himself. The man is 77 years old. He is a living legend. He is the goddamn Italian Stallion, Rambo, and Judge Dredd. And he’s delivering his lines with all the enthusiasm of a man waiting for his colonoscopy results. He looks bored. He sounds bored. It’s like he’s just cashing a paycheck and thinking about his next painting.
The chemistry with his crew, which was the heart of the show, is gone. The lovable, dim-witted crew is now just… annoying. They’re not funny. They’re not endearing. They’re just a bunch of poorly written caricatures who exist solely to say “Yessir, boss” and look confused. It’s like they’ve all been lobotomized between seasons.
Dwayne summed it up best: “In prison, at least you had the occasional riot to break up the monotony. This show is just an endless, monotonous dirge of bad dialogue and plot holes you could drive a semi-truck through. I’d rather be in solitary confinement than watch another episode of this garbage.”
So here’s my PSA to you, America: Don’t waste your time. Don’t give this show your clicks. Cancel your streaming subscription if you must. Go outside, touch some grass, read a book, call your mother. Do literally anything other than subjecting yourself to this cinematic travesty. Sylvester Stallone deserves better.
Final Thoughts
Having spent decades watching action heroes come and go, it’s clear Stallone’s true genius isn’t just his brawn—it’s his unerring instinct for mythologizing the underdog, turning his own physical limitations and career near-deaths into the very fabric of his characters. He understood that the audience doesn't just want to see a knockout punch; they want to see the bleeding, the doubt, and the stubborn refusal to stay down. Ultimately, Stallone’s legacy is a testament to the fact that the most enduring Hollywood tough guys aren't impervious—they're just the ones who get back up one more time than everyone else, both on screen and in the brutal business that made him.