You hold up the group behind you at least four times per round by ordering from the beer cart in the middle of the fairway.
You take (or make) a half-dozen cell phone calls per round, always when it's your turn to play.
Your hat is on backwards, your blue jeans are sagging and your tank top includes at least one obscenity.
You leave 6-inch deep footprints in every bunker, but bitch like hell when your ball lands in one.
You ignore the signs, arrows and ropes and drive your cart wherever you damn well please, because you paid for it.
You can easily be located at any point during your round simply by following the sound of the constant conversational f-bombs.
If by some miracle your group catches up to the group ahead of you, you hit into them.
Your idea of proper on-course bathroom etiquette is to turn your back when you urinate -- if there's a woman nearby.
If forced to let a faster group play through, you pick up your pace and push them for several holes just to prove that the play-through was not justified.
You never, under any circumstances, warn other players if one of your shots is about to hit them. If the person you almost hit was in plain sight and asks why you didn't yell fore, shrug and say, "I didn't see you."
On a particularly busy day, you make sure to ball-hawk for five minutes at every water hazard.
While warming up for your round, you hit 30-yard pitching wedges to the practice putting green.
At the end of the round, you add up your score on the green.