I'm not a religious person, but since Calvin was born I find myself using a lot of names from the pages of the Good Book.
I mean no disrespect to the devout; I simply wish to underscore, as I look both introspectively and retrospectively, how vital it has been for me to release a certain amount of pressure from my cooker from time to time. So, on occasion when vexed, exasperated or irked, or even excited, I have been known to shout—and I don't think I am alone here—the names of whom believers call The Father and The Son and including The Son's parents.
This characteristic of quoting names from the Bible must be genetic as I clearly remember my mother, when she was very frustrated, shouting, "Jehoshaphat!"
My favorite expletive, though—and the one I seem to opt for most frequently—may not exist in the gilt, leather-bound pages of Scripture. This profanity happens to be the oft-despised, yet renown, F-bomb. There's nothing quite like the word for it can be used with such nuance so as to suit seemingly limitless application! I must not fail to mention how mellifluous it sounds—though my adored mother-in-law would beg to differ—whether whispered or mumbled, drawn out, sharply punctuated, screamed excitedly or very plainly stated.
And though I try as I might to refrain from dropping this bomb excessively, whether due to enthusiasm or exasperation, it is my preferred mode of expression over kicking cabinet doors or throwing a shoe. In any case, and lucky for me, if my beloveds are around they usually just laugh.