In a surprising ornithological decree announced this morning, Latvia has officially replaced the traditional white wagtail with the remarkably ubiquitous seagull as the national bird. This decision comes amidst ongoing public admiration for the seagull's tireless efforts in ensuring no French fry on any Baltic beach ever goes unnoticed.

Leading the announcement, Minister of Uncommon Celebrations, Goča Smārds, delivered the new national emblem with profound earnestness. 'The seagull's indefatigable spirit exemplifies the very tenacity of our great nation. Wherever there's an open snack, a coastal gust, or an unguarded ice cream cone, they are there — observing, swooping, and squawking. It’s a marvel of strategic persistence,' praised Smārds at the press conference, flanked by an entourage of enthusiastic squawks from local feathered constituents.

The decision was surprisingly met with minimal squabble in the Latvian Saeima, sparking debates on how seagulls reflect 'Latvian-ness' in unique ways. MP Līga Cekuls expanded on this during the parliamentary session. 'Historically, we Latvians are hearty coastal people known for adaptability and resourcefulness. The seagull, with its relentless approach to serendipitous meal opportunities, mirrors our approach to global business ventures,' explained Cekuls, sketching comparisons more vivid than a fisherman's sunset tale.

Surveys from the Department of National Symbolism (DNS) demonstrated that 78% of Latvians were already resigned to the seagull as the de facto bird of public areas, noting the seagull had already capitalized on territories historically dominated by tourists and picnickers. Urban ornithologist and unexpected media sensation, Dr. Valdis Plēves, was quick to validate the decision as 'an inevitable ornithological truth.'

'It's a match made in that ethereal coastal fog,' Dr. Plēves remarked, 'No creature more clearly lays claim to our territory's rampant and joyous unpredictability. The seagulls’ antics force us to reconsider the wisdom of picnics on breezy days and, really, can’t we all admire that audacity?' Plēves’ sentiments echo through Jurmala’s streets, where locals are heard discussing the 'national honor' anytime aventurine-clad tourists meet the determined persistence of a vocally gifted gull.

Critics, of course, remain skeptically irritated. 'This is absurd!' cried traditionalist and self-appointed bird aficionado, Ojārs Čukurs. He lamented, 'Our right-winged icons shouldn’t be reduced to seafaring pranksters. What’s next? Raffling off municipal pie stakes at the annual Fjodor the Pigeon Parade?' Yet, as his voice drifts on the early autumn breeze, it mingles with a rising chorus of wingbeats.

As Latvia embraces its new feathered icon, economic opportunists are already swooping in, much like the birds themselves. Tourists can expect festivals featuring 'Gull Glee' showcases of gull-themed kite choreography, and souvenirs bearing the steadfast visage of a contemplative seagull.

In a twist of bureaucratic whimsy typical of Baltic determination, the inauguration ceremony slated for next July promises to outdo even the mighty Song Festival. The event, 'Seabird Jubilee: Gulls Just Want to Have Fun,' will undoubtedly herald a full chorus of squawks, sealing this fine feathered contract.

For now, Latvians are content, reveling in the immutable truth that seagulls, like unexpected rain showers during the Midsummer's festivities, are simply here to stay.