“I don’t get to drive much anymore,” the Pope said with a chuckle. “It would be a real treat.”

Not wanting to decline a request from the head of the Catholic Church, the driver nervously stepped aside. Moments later, the limo was tearing down the streets of Manhattan with the Pope at the wheel—his robe fluttering, his foot heavy on the gas. Traffic lights blurred past. The limo hit 100 mph.

Unsurprisingly, the joyride didn’t go unnoticed. A police cruiser lit up behind them, sirens wailing. The officer stepped out, prepared for the usual routine—until he looked through the driver’s window. His jaw dropped.

He immediately radioed his sergeant. “Uh, I just pulled over a limo going well over the speed limit…”

“So what’s the problem?” the sergeant replied.

“Well,” the officer said slowly, “the driver’s someone important.”

“Important like… the mayor?” asked the sergeant.

“Much higher.”

“The governor?”

“Nope—higher still.”

“You’re telling me it’s the President?”

A pause. Then the officer said, “Honestly, I’m not sure who’s in the back… but the Pope is driving him.”When the Pope arrived in New York City, it wasn’t to the sound of choir bells or massive crowds waving flags. Instead, a sleek black limousine waited quietly on the tarmac. As he approached, a twinkle appeared in the Pope’s eye—a mischievous spark not often seen in such a revered figure.

Turning to the chauffeur, the Pope smiled and asked, “Would you mind if I drove for a bit?”

The driver blinked, caught off guard. “Your Holiness, you want to drive the limo?”