I was just now entertaining (if that's the right word) myself with Samuel Beckett's Molloy, in which one page before Beckett plunges into another of his frequent existentialist abysses, he writes of a brief encounter:
She had a parrot, very pretty, all the most approved colours. I understood him better than his mistress.... He exclaimed from time to time, Fuck the son of a bitch, fuck the son of a bitch.
This evening just seemed like a good contextual time for a great, albeit non-Wisconsinite, parrot quote. And there you have it.