The ultimate relic, blessed at the highest levels.
Not only bulletproof, but due to its own holy grace, it is guarded by a brace of seraphim from collisions, bird poop, tourist trap sticker-slappers, and any who would violate the sacred vehicle. Like saints, whose bodies are incorruptible after death and give off a sweet scent, the Pope's car always smells like a new car, even if the dog barfed in it.
Sculptor's depiction of the last sight seen by a chain-smoking meter maid attempting to slap a ticket on the Popemobile, just before she is cleaved in twain and her shriveled soul is hauled screaming to the little-known fourteenth circle of Hell, the circle reserved for those who, when you've already had the crappiest day in weeks, drop that last damn straw on your camel's quivering back.
Off Topic » in reply to You want the car?
Heck, I want the Pope's car.