For some, the Super Bowl is two weeks away. For most, the season is finally over and it’s time to start spending the millions. How do the great men of the NFL choose to unwind?

Brett Favre:  Returns home to cheers, honors and rampant celebration despite the mind-blowingly bad pass call and subsequent loss. Quickly forgets about the five wide-open yards that could have been easily covered for prime field-goal setup. Kisses babies, signs breasts, resumes regular float-riding in Minneapolis’s bi-weekly “We Love Brett Favre” parade. Retires. Discovers cure for cancer. Brokers multi-national peace agreement in the Middle East. Appears at meetings of the Favropalian Knights, a long-established secret society that values only cheese production, indecision and endless worship of Brett Favre. Decides he’s just not ready to leave the field and starts for the Cowboys in the fall.

Eli Manning: Tries to re-establish himself as King-Pimp of Hoboken. Spends five hours a day walking up and down Washington Street while saying loudly, “Yeah, dat’s how I roll. Dat’s how I roll cause dat’s how I gotta roll.” Asks hot wife to dress like a hooker and accompany him on strolls. Is bitch-smacked by hot wife. Gets laughed off the sidewalk and back into his automated condo. Cries, calls Peyton.

Nate Kaeding: Retreats to an Indian ashram for soul-searching, chakra-centering and media-avoiding. Encounters Taoist Apothecary Guru who also happens to be a Chargers fan. Is never heard from again.

Mark Sanchez: Women. Women, women and more women. Begins sleeping his way through half the female population of New York and New Jersey, because after this post-season, he can. Besides, he already did it in California. Pshht.

Peyton Manning: Wins AFC title. Gets home, draws a bath, lights candles. Sighs, smiles… life is beautiful. Makes grocery list for wife Ashley – better make sure she doesn’t forget the fennel and arugula, otherwise he just doesn’t know what to put in tomorrow’s salad. Hands grocery list to Ashley with a smile and a loving kiss on the cheek. Ashley tears the grocery list into a thousand pieces, throws it into the fireplace and begins murderously ravaging the coals with a long cast-iron stoker. “IT’S ALWAYS ABOUT YOU!” she cries. “WHAT ABOUT ME!?!” As she tears the red-hot stoker from the flames and rushes towards her husband, he is struck by inspiration. Calls agent. “Do you know any companies that make those fire-poker things?” he asks. “I just had the most amazing idea for a commercial…”

Adrian Peterson: I don’t care what he does in his free time as long as he’s my fantasy team again next fall. God bless you, Adrian Peterson. God bless you.