On seventeen different occasions, a medical doctor has pronounced Paul Johnson dead. Many of those physicians didn't have the benefit of modern training, of course; the apothecary who examined him in 1574, for instance, merely determined that Johnson lacked any yellow bile and therefore could not be alive. The Prussian medic who found him on the battlefield in 1916 was little more than a farmer with a satchel of cocaine and boric acid. And the Minneapolis medical examiner who performed an autopsy on Johnson in 1938 turned out to have faked his credentials.
Still, none of it explains Death's inability to overtake Paul Johnson. How could he survive all the stabbings, shootings, and poisonings? What mystical power allowed him to emerge unscathed after Tevin Washington accidentally set him on fire? Why didn't the grave hold him after he lost the Orange Bowl to Iowa?
So Paul Johnson lives on, thumbing his nose at mortality. The government won't talk about it, and the NCAA's too terrified to look into it. That leaves only rumors - some say beheading is the only way to finally kill him, others insist he has to be drowned in holy water. Many believe he'll simply perish when he feels like it.
The point is, you will die before meaningful harm can befall Paul Johnson. He's outlived countless enemies - popes (Avignon and otherwise), Huns, the Japanese Sea Lion. Nations have withered and crumbled in his lifetime. You invited him in, Georgia Tech fans. Now you have to hope he gets bored or start figuring out how to trigger Ragnarök.