Earlier this week, when Nintendo announced a series of mysterious “extraordinary celestial events” in random places named “Kirby,” I was excited. I just happen to live a few blocks away from Kirby Park in Kingston, PA. When I saw what happened there this morning, I was inspired to write a few words:

Four score and seven minutes ago Nintendo brought forth on Kirby Park a new creation, conceived in bubbles, and dedicated to the proposition that all men were still looking for a Wii for Christmas.

Now we are engaged in a console war, testing whether this system, or any system so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that console might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate — we can not consecrate — we can not hallow — this ground. The brave Kirbies, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here with bubbles.

It is for us the living, the two neck-bearded guys, one confused morning jogger, and I that stood watching the event unfold, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — telling the world that the Nintendo “grand celestial event” was a total flop, with just three college students running a bubble machine — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that parents of the people, by the people, for the people, shall buy the new Kirby game for the DS.

Worst. Publicity. Stunt. Ever.

Popularity: unranked [?]