The idea here is to write a story a few lines at a time.
You simply submit a few paragraphs, and other users vote on whether to add it.
(musing…) I can’t believe I really thought this thread title said “Collaborative Wetting”…
Oh, just carry on, then. Sorry Walden!
M 
This is gonna be one steamy novel…
I used to run a website for writers. We ran collaborative stories using forum software. It was great fun and some of the stuff was hilarious.
Sadly, the hosting company was run by inept people. The database went t*ts up, and we lost most of the site content.
That was the second time in my life that I swore that I never again forget to back up important data.
Having thought that, I can’t believe you READ it! 
Well, I’ll start:
It was another hot day in L.A. The 57 freeways showed signs of its normal backup through the pass and out towards the ocean. The car still smelled of pizza after picking it up from the local shop last night.
“Am I ever going to get some sleep?”
“So, tired from last nite.”
“There’s the turnoff to Imperial”
The car makes an easy shift to the off ramp. There is a homeless person standing at the corner, next to the signal; this time he has
… a placard that reads, “Arrrrr, what’s “Imperial,” me buck-o. That’s what we wants ter know. Arrrr!!!”
djm
And in smaller print it said, “Arrrgh ye goin’ ta San Francisco?”
It being National Talk Like a Pirate Day, I took it as a sign… I slowed down to a crawl and…
It’s the word you chaps from Her Majesty’s realm use to refer to the system of customary measures.
Measures? There be only two measures! Fire a broadside and clap 'em in irons!
(oops. That was yesterday. Never mind.)
…well, it was such a crawly crawl that by the time I reached the pirate with the placard it was the next day. And where once a grizzled old buccaneer had been standing there was now a panhandler with one arm, one and three-quarters of a leg, and three eyes.
Three eyes? Something about this scene was disturbingly amiss, and it wasn’t his placard (which now said Imperial College of Fzzzzz–zoink–zoink–zoink/bersplattttt.) No. The truly troubling element was…
… when the answer suddenly dawned on me. I knew this strange feeling of ennui, the dull twinge in my joints, the pins and needles feeling in my extremeties. This had all happened before.
I held my breath and checked myself thoroughly. I was not reliving an old memory. This was real. It was happening now. There could be no question they had returned. It was the unmistakable sign of the Chry&((#$%!#$&%@#$%)($%)()$#%$ … …
djm
… when I woke, I found myself surrounded by…
…hundreds, maybe thousands, of short, round men–not one more than six inches high–all scurrying around me peering into magnifying glasses, and wearing t-shirts that said “Fiffinchipple Enterprises…”
..They were saying my name was Gullible or something like that and that they found me in their travels.
Anstapa
What really struck me as odd was to see these short round men being followed assiduously by comely young maidens, with vacant, bemused expressions on their faces, carrying lumps of bread dough. I stopped one of the little men and inquired as to the relationship of he and his brethren with the young maidens. “They’re interns, of course,” he replied, giving me an exasperated look, “but we can’t let them out of our sight for a moment.”
He hurried off after one of the maidens, and I realized that it was the short, round men who were, in fact, following the young maidens, though in a rather haphazard way. There seemed to be a bit of a chant echoing round from little man to little man, puffed out under their collective breath, in almost unconscious repetition, “Lilly, put the bread down. Lilly, put the bread … Lilly, put … Lilly put…”
I couldn’t make any sense of it at all.
djm
…But suddenly, the drone-like chant of the little men and all their Lillies was rent by a loud, grating voice which seemed to come from nowhere in particular: “YAAAAAHOOOOO!”
I hastily pulled out my Alba Bb, and attempted to pick up the tune…
There before me stood a giant bigger than myself, clothed in garments of royal blue and crimson. Girded about his waist was a belt of black leather, from which hanged many a whistle in every key that man has ever known!
My eyes grew wide in awe and fear. With all my courage, I meekly asked, “Who are you and where am I?”
“Yarrr,” he said, "… ye may not know me to see me, but I betcher knows me by repertaion… Name’s Mason… Mason Dison, but the folks 'raound here jes call me ‘Dixie’… " …
I noticed that he was fumbling with something and making an odd scraping kind of noise on the bottom of one of the whistles… it was small grey stone, and he was apparently sharpening the edge of the whistle… hm… perhaps weaponry?..