When you're talking about Monaco, Lamborghinis and Ferraris are so dull, so boring. Everyone and their uncle's boyfriend has one. If you really want to stand out, you need something ridiculous. Something hilarious. Something obnoxious. You need a C5 Corvette with aftermarket exhaust.

If you stopped me on the street, anywhere in America, and asked me if I liked the C5 'Vette, I'd look at you like you had three heads. Or rather, maybe only half of one. In my eyes, it's vulgar, unbefitting of the global automotive stage, like a KFC Double Down brought to a microgastronomy competition. It's cheap, it's uncomfortable, and it's crude.

Whereas the British gave the world the TVR, in the category of slightly-nutty-yet-cheap sports cars, Chevrolet gave us something made out of nothing but black plastic, and the red food coloring made out of insects that they use to give Gogurt that slightly disconcerting hue.

But if you stopped me on the street, anywhere else in the world, I'd be singing the Corvette's praises. Preferably to the tune of "God Bless America." Because it's so outrageous, so preposterous, so patriotic, that it's a nice in-your-face blackeye to the swarming, gilded Europeans that make up the average citizenry of Monte Carlo.

And when you stick an aftermarket exhaust on it, and go blasting down the streets of the Grand Prix circuit, it's delightful.