The pope is on a tour of the United States
The tour follows a simple routine: he shows up in a city, addresses an adoring multitude, and then hits the road for the next city. After just a few stops it starts to get pretty monotonous.
After all, one adoring multitude starts to look much like another after a few days on the road.
The pope is bored in the backseat of his limo, cruising down the highway on the way to his next appearance, when a wicked idea strikes him. He leans forward and says to his driver, “Hey, pull over—I want to drive.”
Shocked, the driver tries to talk him out of it. “Your holiness, I don’t think that’s such a good idea! You haven’t driven in many years, and you’re not as young as you used to be…I’m responsible for your safety…”
The pope won’t hear it. “Who’s the boss here, you or me?” So the driver relents and pulls over. He and the pope switch spots: the pope settles into the driver’s seat, while the driver moves to
the back seat, straps himself in, and waits nervously.
The pope starts driving…and he’s a terrible driver. Swerving in and out of lanes, braking suddenly, nearly causing a dozen accidents. Finally, a highway patrol car pulls behind him and starts flashing his lights. The pope pulls over, still having the time of his life.
The highway patrolman saunters up to the window and leans in—only to realize he’s talking to the pope.
“Excuse me one second,” he says, and dashes back to his car to get on the radio. “Listen, Sarge, we’ve got a problem,” he says to his sergeant. “I just pulled over someone really, really big, and I don’t know if I can give them a ticket.”
“Calm down, son, we’ve dealt with this before,” the sergeant says. “Who is it…Hunter Biden or someone?” “No, no, bigger than that, sir.”
“What, like, Taylor Swift??” “No, even bigger than her, sir.”
“Well for god’s sake, who is it?” the sergeant asks.
“That’s the thing, sir,” the patrolman says. “I’ve never seen him before, but whoever he is, he’s got the pope driving him around!”