Riga, Latvia—In what can only be described as a revelation of monumental insignificance, the Latvian Ministry of Meteorological Inquiry convened an emergency press conference this week following three consecutive overcast days, declaring the sun to be a "mythical construct we've been misleadingly taught to revere for decades."

Minister of Doubt and Fragmentary Physics, Kristaps Blenšs, led the press conference held in a dimly lit room above a Jurmala boardwalk kiosk specializing in cloudy-day postcards. With unwavering confidence, he addressed the bewildered press: "For too long, we have been enslaved by solar propaganda, believing that a massive fusion reactor in the sky is responsible for day, warmth, and happiness. After three full days of uninterrupted cloud cover, we can finally announce the sun as nothing more than a fairy tale concocted to sell sunglasses."

As spectators stood in shocked silence, Blenšs unveiled the ministry’s new educational initiative, "Cloud Credulity," aimed at revising school curriculums to reflect their new doctrine. "Children will no longer be confused, wondering where the supposed sun has gone," Blenšs assured worried parents. "They'll learn to develop a true appreciation for the enduring charm of grey skies and drizzle."

Reports from Latvia State News (which curiously operates entirely from a subterranean bunker lit solely by fluorescent bulbs) confirm that copies of new geography textbooks are already being distributed, proudly titled, 'The Grayscale Guide to Latvian Skies'. Education professionals have lauded the ministry’s efforts, with Astrida Putne, head of Curriculum Revolution, claiming, "The students are thrilled. With all the extra time they’ll save not searching for the sun, they can focus on more concrete activities like puddle splashing and competitive indoor blanket architecture."

The residents of Latvia seemed largely unfazed by the declaration. A small survey conducted among Rīga's residents revealed that 92% reported feeling "relieved" that they no longer had to schedule sunbathing sessions around Latvia's famously fickle weather. "I never liked the idea of being judged by my vitamin D levels anyhow," remarked Andrejs Vējšs, a local barista. "I always suspected vitamin D stood for ‘dubious’."

Though some do express concerns—the florist industry warning of potential impacts on mood—from their pastel-colored shop in the center of Rīga's Old Town, shopkeeper Aija Laime remains optimistic. "We merely hope," she explained, "that people embrace the new mantra: Don't mope over a grey kaleidoscope."

As the Ministry of Meteorological Inquiry gears up for more groundbreaking announcements, insiders hint at a future press briefing potentially tackling the long-standing mystery of warming trends. "We are unequivocally considering renaming 'global warming' to 'global blopping'," Blenšs revealed. "After all, it sounds more like the kind of thing that happens when you enjoy a hearty bowl of sour porridge."

In the face of such sweeping changes to our collective understanding of the sun and skies, both disbelief and blind acceptance mark this historic moment in Latvian scientific discourse. As the installation of new meteorological understanding sinks in, one thing remains certain: when it comes to the weather, in Latvia, at least the clouds show up on time.