The Blarney Stone. Virginia Beach, Virginia

172 South Plaza Trail Suite B

Guinness Tag: $"F-You we don't serve Guinness" | Overall Rating: 1.40

Today's Dedicated Pint: Rumpke

I checked out of my hotel along Virginia Beach at about 6:30 in the morning with my eyes on The Blarney Stone, as they open at 6AM every day. It was a perfect start to my trip back home to Ohio, being that it allowed me to snag a new Irish Pub under my belt before lunch. The drive into the parking lot was a little weird, as the place sits just a couple of blocks away from an elementary school, and I had to stop a few times to allow some children to walk across the street with their little backpacks and lunch boxes. It felt weird because I'm watching adults drop off their kids at school while I'm 5 minutes away from sipping on a Guinness and possibly throwing some darts inside a Pub. Call me stupid, or a degenerate, or both, I don't care. All I know is that my dream of Stepping Foot Inside Every Irish Pub in America can't be accomplished without snagging a barstool inside the Blarney Stone here in VA Beach, and this was the only time to do it, so you bet your ass I'm stopping in!

What I'm about to say next will certainly strike a few nerves with a few people, especially those who frequent this place and run the joint. The Blarney Stone has been here for years, and I'm sure it'll be here for more to come. So, at the end of the day, I'm going to say what I have to say and that's that. Mind you, I've been to way too many Pubs at this point to have any reason to exaggerate or make anything up. I'm by no means on this mission to make anyone look bad, but I told myself that I'm going to be honest with what I experience and keep these articles as raw as I can. Let's let it rip.

The Pub's curb appeal is about as ugly as the hairy mole on your backside, as the place sits inside a strip mall right next door to an Advanced Auto Parts. I walk in, notice the dim-lit horseshoe bar, and plop my potato near the door. The bartender comes up, she calls me "honey," and asks what I'm having. I asked for a Guinness, and she says, "Oh, we don't have that." How could I be so stupid to think a place called "The Blarney Stone" would serve Guinness? I opted for a Yuengling.

As you look around, you'll notice a few slot machines, a plastic dart board, a few pool tables, a small dining room with raggedy booths, and a few TVs. The countertop has that cheap, laminate feel to it with some left-over stains from the night before. Every pool table was being played on by the time I left which was neat to see, and the slot machines were being used as well. The place is nice and dark, which is fitting for those looking to crush 10 bottles of Bud and a pack of Marlboro Reds before 9AM on a Monday. You can smoke in here, which I don't have a problem with. The place is pretty dirty and grimy, though, and I do have a bit of a problem with that. Don't paint me wrong, I will gladly enjoy a busted little dive bar that hasn't been dusted off in years, but that doesn't mean I'm cool with every dirty Pub.

The people in here today were loud, and a couple of the guys who I could tell are regulars were incredibly annoying. It was almost like they were having a competition amongst themselves to see who could yell the loudest, tell the worst jokes, and make everyone in the bar believe they are the dumbest human being alive. I'm an all-around Pubgoer and I've bartended for years; I know how to relate to any type of demographic. Whether it's a proper Pub with white collar people, or a greasy bar filled with crackheads, I can hold a fun conversation with anyone. That's not me trying to flex, it's just what happens when you are forced to do it for a living. I love having that ability, as it makes life a lot more enjoyable. These guys were awful, and I was happy to watch them from the sidelines, although I felt bad for the bartender who had to put up with their asses. At one point, some song by Katy Perry came on, and one of the guys goes, "I feel like I'm at a high school prom." He then proceeded to hump the air in a cringey fashion for a good 20 or so seconds, waiting for everyone to acknowledge what he was doing, expecting them to laugh along with him. I gave him the look of, "you're a f*ckin idiot." I feel bad for anyone who has to deal with him everyday, because what a total waste of human life. I'll digress.

At this point, I decided to take some relief in the bathroom before my long drive ahead. I walked down the hallway and discovered what may be the worst restaurant bathroom I've ever seen, which consisted of greasy floors, a gaping hole in the drop ceiling, a dirty plunger, and the fresh smell of a ripe poo. As I'm walking back to the dining room, I'm thinking to myself, "What the hell am I doing with my life?" I've been saying for a while now, you need to experience "the bad" in order to experience "the good." Not all Pubs can be awesome. Sometimes, you gotta take a few blows before enjoying the good things in life. The Blarney Stone is a strong example of one of the painful blows I have to experience throughout my everlasting journey of finding this country's best Pub. I don't mind taking the hits, but my life would have been slightly better today if this Pub ceased to exist. Hey, I signed up for it, so I can only blame myself.

What blows my mind about this place is that not only does it have a kitchen, but people actually eat the shit that comes out of it, too. I wouldn't consume anything cooked under this roof unless there was a gun to my groin, and even then, I'd probably still debate doing it. I like how the place is nice and dark, but I'd be terrified if they ever turned the lights up all the way. I'd hate to see what the floors and cracks look like in real time.

Every neighborhood/city needs a place like this. It keeps certain people occupied who need occupied. Can you have a fun time in here? Sure you can. Does it reign Irish culture? No, and that's alright. Would I recommend anyone to stumble in here who might be looking for some good Irish vibes, Irish food, and some Craic? Hell no.

I'm off to Charleston, West Virginia. Good luck, Blarney Stone.