From "Weirdos' Pilgrimage" again.
— What they usually say is, aha, you just love me for my body! But it will wane and wither after forty, so what will make you love me then?
— Fifty, — said Fat Jim.
— Some, frankly, last longer, — said Old Poe, — I'm sixty three and my first wife, she's not totally wasted yet, organoleptically. At least she wasn't last time we met.
— Ann? One total babe, sure, — said Fat Jim. Old Poe opened his eyes and looked at him for a while, as if taking a critical measure of the academic credentials behind his words.
— What I always wanna tell them, gents, — he continued, — What I always wanna tell them is, OK, lady, what specifically makes you think your exquisite heightened level of awareness will survive after forty? Your special powers of empathy towards your male baboon du jour? Your keen interest in all things intellectual? Your perceptiveness towards the very minute details of the world?
They remained silent for some time, with only cubes of ice clinking in Mungo's glass.
— This fucking booze tastes like an old woman's piss, — said Mungo finally.
— Exactly, son, — said Old Poe, — Exactly.