The supposedly Quaker curse: When thee gets home, I hope thy mother runs out from under thy porch and bites thee.

Rats!!
Phooey!!
Drat!!
Fiddlesticks!!!

On the subject of the ubiquitous f-word. I could never understand why such a pleasurable activity should be reduced to an expletive. You might as well go round injecting "Ice Cream" into every sentence.