CRISPY CONTEMPLATES SAFFRON

What I mean to say is: I used to like saffron. I liked its species, which is Crocus, from the family Iridaceae. I liked its stigmas, of which it had three. They are the distal ends of its carpels. I liked the style, the stalk, and the rest of the plant. 
I liked that it was expensive: a pound of it costs more than a brand new Cadillac. And a Cadillac full of it would cost more than a lunar rover. And if you were in a lunar rover, you wouldn’t be able to smell its pungent aroma, because there is no atmosphere–upon which aromatic molecules find transport–upon the moon–or at least very very little atmosphere–to be sure. And if you decided to try to smell it by removing your space helmet, you would die instantly as your blood boils and your lungs burst from the intense pressure and oxygen free environment. That is, assuming you were in a lunar rover on the moon. And that is, assuming there was saffron on the moon. However, if you were merely hijacking a lunar rover because you were fond of lunar rovers and it seemed like the best manner in which to make a speedy getaway from a particularly dull trip to the Lyndon B. Johnson Space Center, I would suggest that you ditch the lunar rover somewhere other than next to your Cadillac, since Caddys have notoriously bad getaway pick-up, and yours is filled with saffron which would slow down a slow big car, so pungently aromatic. And since you and your car stink of saffron, you would certainly be nabbed, for the association of car, aroma, and lunar rover would be a 2 +2 = 4 equation, a dead giveaway, as dead as Lyndon B. Johnson himself, a good but not a great President, and one who acted suspiciously upon occasion, and for good reason, in his oxygen rich environment, gazing at the moon, somewhat squinty, albeit commanding and aromatic–a poet of the thieving stars.