H, wrote the Eldest cheerfully, you are a peice of rubbish.
For a moment, the boys doubtless wore the identical grins of small boys who are treading the edge of the great, wide Okay.
E, wrote H, you are a piece of moldy bread.
Looking at the Eldest's note in my parent-teacher conference, I laughed. And suggested that the boys needed more practice in the flourishes of friendly insults.
May the fleas of ten thousand camels do the electric slide in your armpits!
The teachers carefully did not smile. Bad mommy.