The Pope flies to a private visit to the United States. At New York’s John F. Kennedy Airport, a snow-white, super-stretched Lincoln awaits him, one of those extra-long sedans that will not fit into a regular garage and should be taken for a snack as a precaution.
When the Pope sees the car, the car-breaker awakens in him, he gets gleaming eyes and asks the chauffeur whether he should not drive himself to drive a piece with it. The chauffeur hesitates, but who can deny the wish of the Holy Father?
So the chauffeur takes a seat in the spacious rear seat, the Pope sits behind the Lincoln steering wheel and sets off like Schumi on the Hungaro ring.
He is promptly stopped by a motorcycle patrol behind the Brooklyn Bridge. The policeman comes to the car, sees the driver, recognizes him immediately, looks into the rear, rushes to his Harley and lights his boss.
“Sir,” he says, “I just stopped a car because it drove way too fast, but the passenger must be a very important person, what should I do?”
The boss asks back:
“Who is the VIP?”
“I do not know.”
“Is it Michael Jordan?”
“No.”
“Is it Michael Jackson?”
“No”.
“Is it Mr. President himself?”
“No.”
Since it is the police chief too colorful.
“Why do you even think that this is a VIP?”
Then the cop:
“Well, his chauffeur is the pope!”