This could've been cut in half and still retained its masturbatory air. It's Jordan Belfort wanking about how many drugs he's done, women he's cheated on his (now ex) wife with, how many times he's fucked his (now ex) wife and the feelings she gave his TOTALLY BIG PENIS GUYS, IT'S HUGE I JUST HAD TO SHOW PEOPLE BECAUSE MY PENIS IS BIG EVEN THOUGH I AM SHORT JUST LOOK!!! He also likes to reiterate every few chapters about how he's totally not a bigot, okay, it just slips out and then a moment later the slurs go flying.
He could've at least paid for a ghost writer, and then some. At least DiCaprio was almost charming. Oh yeah, DiCaprio's Belfort was toned down. Jesus. If this was written as though Belfort felt even a shred of real remorse, I wouldn't be so annoyed and bored. There was little of the actual Stratton Oakmont years, far less than even the film, which is the entire reason I picked up this book in the first place. It's just a midlife crisis in book form. This memoir is Belfort having a five hundred page-long wank about how great he was at stocks and women and drugs, because Jordan Belfort is absolutely the sort of man to think of women as a prize to be won. He was, and continues to be, gross. Look no further for proof that Wall Street is evil, or at the very least shot through with it.
Was it worth the twenty hours I spent listening to it?