Did I really sink a 170-foot yacht?

From the Desk (FBI Evidence File) of Jordan Belfort:

Prologue: To tell you the full story of sinking the yacht, you must first understand that I was addicted to Quaaludes…

Part 1: The Yacht

Picture this: I'm high as hell on ludes, when the bright idea fairy sprinkles some coke-dust on my frontal lobe and whispers…

🧚 "Hey, why not sail your yacht right into Poseidon's asshole?"

I mean, what's the point of having "F**k You" money if you can't use it to flip off Mother Nature herself?

So I gathered up my band of ragtag misfits and we hit the open seas. Little did we know — mostly because of the drugs — the hell that would await.

I'm popping Quaaludes like they're Tic Tacs and sipping Bloody Mary’s. Before I know it, we're in the middle of a massive storm with 25-foot waves crashing all around us.

Part 2: Rogue Waves

The boat decided it was a f**king gymnast, flipping and spinning like Simone Biles on bath salts.

I stumbled through the pandemonium, priceless art turned projectiles, and a pile of puking guests.

I grabbed the Duchess and we crawl through the chaos to watch Captain Mark try to unf**k the situation.

About that time, a 60-foot wall of water hits us, flipping the boat 360 degrees.

We lose an engine, and a porthole gives way. Lights out. We're sinking. And, I'm thinking: "F**k this boat. I hate this f**king thing."

Part 3: Mayday, Mayday

The Italian Navy rushed to our rescue, likely thinking they're saving VIPs, not realizing we're just high-as-a-kite morons.

At this point, I'm more concerned about the drugs than anything else. 

I send my friend to get the Quaaludes, and he comes back with third-degree burns on his feet from the electrified water.

“But hey, at least we got the ludes!”

Then, a Navy SEAL, armed with a speargun and a "f**k this shit" attitude, started plucking us off the ship.

One by one, we were yanked to safety, leaving behind my hopes, dreams, and enough designer luggage to clothe a small country.

Part 4: The Missing Jet

After ten soggy, ball-chafing days in Sardinia, wearing nothing but the same crusty underwear and the lingering scent of shame, my private jet is a no-show.

Plus, we ran out of drugs. I'm pissed, pacing around the airport for an hour when this little Italian f**k comes scampering up to me and says four words: "Mr. Belfort, plane crash."

"Get the f**k out of here. In 10 days, I lost my yacht and my plane?!"

Turns out, a flock of kamikaze seagulls flew into the engine, and down went the plane (luckily, the pilots lived). At this point, I'm pretty sure the universe was tag-teaming with karma to run a train on me.

But you know what? If karma wants to deal me a hand of crazy, I'll ante up and go all-in, even if the deck is stacked against me.

Key takeaway: They outlawed Quaaludes for a reason.