Uhm… many many years ago, when my rear left tire exploded and I narrowly managed to avoid hitting the concrete pillar head-on, scraping the whole driver’s side against it instead, my dialogue was along the lines of “ostiastiatiaOSSSSTIADIOooOOooSTIA! Copón ¡DIOS!”
By Spanish-Catholic standards that counts as fervent prayer, not taking the Lord’s name in vain, eh! (ostia is the Holy Host, Copón the Cup of Holy Wine as well as the nickname for the Ace of Cups but you can bet I wasn’t thinking of card games, and Dios is God)
“I am just going outside and may be some time.” - Titus Oates. Those last words have always stayed with me: They admit death but don’t surrender to it, and they perform the task of conveying useful information.
As for myself, when I think I’m in a hairy situation I make bad jokes while I look around me for tools. My normal interior monologue goes into overdrive and I am, at heart, a second-rate Shecky Greene.
“What? What’s that? The smell of sulfer? Oh god. The heat. THE HEAT! AHHH! The eternal sorrow… SUCH DISPAIR. no, oh no… not there. NOT THERE!!! FORGIVE ME LORD!!! AHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
