The Wolf of Wall Street Monologues

Based on the true story of Jordan Belfort, from his rise to a wealthy stock-broker living the high life to his fall involving crime, corruption and the federal government.

Let me tell you something. There's no nobility in poverty. I have been a rich man and I have been a poor man. And I choose rich every fuckin' time. Because, at least as a rich man, when I have to face my problems, I show up in the back of the limo, wearing a $2000 suit and a $40,000 gold fuckin' watch.

My name is Jordan Belfort. I'm a former member of the middle class raised by two accountants in a tiny apartment in Bayside, Queens. The year I turned 26, as the head of my own brokerage firm, I made $49 million, which really pissed me off because it was three shy of a million a week.

On a daily basis I consume enough drugs to sedate Manhattan, Long Island, and Queens for a month. I take Quaaludes 10-15 times a day for my "back pain", Adderall to stay focused, Xanax to take the edge off, pot to mellow me out, cocaine to wake me back up again, and morphine… Well, because it's awesome. But of all the drugs under God's blue heaven, here is one that is my absolute favorite. See, enough of this shit will make you invincible - able to conquer the world. And eviscerate your enemies.

Oh my God! You had to deal with the Golf Course people too! What a greek tragedy! Honey oh my God!, you probably had to pay them in cash with your hands! What a fucking burden, and actually had to do some work besides swiping my fucking credit card all day? Huh? Cause I can't keep track of your professions honey! Last month you were a wine connoisseur, and now you're an aspiring landscape architect, Isn't that right?

An I.P.O. is an initial public offering. It's the first time a stock is offered for sale to the general population. Now as the firm taking the company public, we set the initial sales price then sold those shares right back to our friends. Yet...

Look, I know you're not following what I'm saying anyway, right? That's... that's okay, that doesn't matter. The real question is this: was all this legal? Absolutely fucking not. But we were making more money than we knew what do with.

See those little black boxes? They're called telephones. I'm gonna let you in on a little secret about these telephones. They're not gonna dial themselves. Okay? Without you, they're just worthless hunks of plastic. Like a loaded M16 without a trained marine to pull the trigger.

My wife, Naomi, the Duchess of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. A former model and Miller Lite girl. Yeah. She was the one with my cock in her mouth in the Ferrari, so put your dick back in your pants.

Donnie and I were going out on our own. And the first thing we needed was brokers. Guys with sales experience. So I recruited some of my home town boys. Sea Otter, who sold meat and weed. Chester, who sold tires and weed. And Robbie, who sold anything he can get his hands on, mostly weed. This is Brad, and Brad is the guy I really wanted. But he didn't go along with us. He was making so much money selling Quaaludes that he become the Quaalude King of Bayside.

You wanna know what money sounds like? Go to a trading floor on Wall street. "Fuck this, shit that. Cunt, cock, asshole." I couldn't believe how these guys talked to each other! I was hooked in seconds. It was like mainlining adrenaline.

After 15 years in storage, the lemmons had developed a delayed fuse. It took 90 minutes for these fuckers to kick in but once they did, pow. And I had skipped the tingle phase and jumped straight to the drool phase. These little bastards were so strong I had discovered a whole new phase. The Cerebral Palsy phase.

I'm sober for two years, stopped my drugs, settled down with my wife and kids, and then this happens! Rugrat gets busted down in Miami, and guess who happens to be with him? Saurel! That's right, out of all the Swiss bankers in Miami, it had to be him! Even more fucked, is that he got busted for shit that had nothing to do with me. It had nothing to fucking do with me! Some stuff about running drugs with Rocky Aoki, you know, the founder of Benihana? Benihana... Beni-fucking-hana? BENI-FUCKING-HANA? WHY? WHY, GOD? Why would You be so cruel as to use the king of Japanese restaurants to take me down?

The Quaalude, or lude, as it is commonly referred to, was first synthesized in 1951 by an Indian doctor - that's dots, not feathers - as a sedative, and was prescribed to stressed-out housewives with sleep disorders. But pretty soon, somebody figured out that if you resisted the urge to sleep for just fifteen minutes, you got a pretty kick-ass high from it. Didn't take long for people to start abusing ludes, of course, and in 1982 the U.S. government "Schedule 1'd" them, along with the rest of the world. Which meant there was only a finite amount of these things left. No shit. You can't even buy them anymore. You people are all shit out of luck.

Look, I knew these guys weren't like Harvard MBAs. Robbie Feinberg, the Pinhead, took five years to finish high school. Alden Kupferberg, the Sea Otter, didn't even graduate. Chester Ming, the depraved China man, thought jujitsu was in Israel. Smartest of the bunch was Nicky Koskoff. He actually went to law school. I called him Rugrat because of his piece of shit hairpiece. Still, give them to me young, hungry, and stupid, and in no time, I'll make 'em rich.

So you listen to me and you listen well. Are you behind on your credit card bills? Good! Pick up the phone and start dialing! Is your landlord ready to evict you? Good! Pick up the phone and start dialing! Does your girlfriend think you're a fucking worthless loser? Good! Pick up the phone and start dialing! I want you to deal with your problems by becoming rich! All you have to do today is pick up that phone and speak the words that I have taught you. And I will make you richer than the most powerful CEO in the United States of fucking America!

But before you depart this room full of winners, I want you to take a good look at the person next to you. Go on. Because sometime in the not-so-distant future, you're gonna be pulling up at a red light, in your beat-up old fucking Pinto, and that person's gonna be pulling up right alongside you in their brand new Porsche. With their beautiful wife by their side, who's got big voluptuous tits. And who're you gonna be sitting next to? Some disgusting wildebeest with three days of razor-stubble, in a sleeveless muumuu, crammed in next to you in a carload full of groceries from the fucking Price Club. That's who you're gonna be sitting next to!

Even more fucked was that he got busted for shit that had nothing to with me. It had nothing to fucking do with me. Something about laundering drug money through offshore boat racing and a guy named Rocky Aoki, you know the founder of Benihanna. Benihanna, Beni fucking hanna. Beni fucking hanna!. Why why why god, why would you be so cruel as to choose a chain of fucking hibachi restaurants to take me down!

Gentlemen, welcome to Stratton Oakmont. You snooks will now be targeting the wealthiest 1% of Americans. We're talking about whales here, Moby fucking Dicks. And with this script, which is your new harpoon, I'm gonna teach each and every one of you to be Captain fucking Ahab.

Actually, the madness started on our very first day, when one of our brokers, Ben Jenner, christened the elevator by getting a blow job from the sales assistant. Her name was Pam and to her credit, she did have this amazing technique with this wild twisting jerk motion. About a month later, Donnie and I decided to double team her on a Saturday afternoon while our wives were out shopping for Christmas presents. Eventually Ben married her, which was pretty amazing, considering she blew every single guy in the office. Well, he got depressed and killed himself about three years later.